THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 

PAUL  TURNER,  U.S.M.C.R. 

KILLED  IN  ACTION,  SAIPAN 

JUNE,  1944 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NKW  YORK   •    BOSTON    •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


REYNARD  THE  FOX 

OR 
THE  GHOST  HEATH  RUN 


BY 

JOHN    MASEFIELD 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY,"  "THE  WIDOW 
IN  THE  BYE  STREET,"  ETC. 


ff  orfc 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1919 

All  rightt  retervtd 


COPYRIGHT,  1919, 
BY  JOHN  MA8EFIELD. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October,  1919. 


Xorfoooti 

J.  S.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


Pfi. 


PART  I 


602593 


REYNARD   THE   FOX, 

OR 

THE  GHOST   HEATH  RUN 

The  meet  was  at  "The  Cock  and  Pye 
By  Charles  and  Martha  Enderby," 
The  grey,  three-hundred-year-old  inn 
Long  since  the  haunt  of  Benjamin 
The  highwayman,  who  rode  the  bay. 
The  tavern  fronts  the  coaching  way, 
The  mail  changed  horses  there  of  old. 
It  has  a  strip  of  grassy  mould 
In  front  of  it,  a  broad  green  strip. 
A  trough,  where  horses'  muzzles  dip, 
Stands  opposite  the  tavern  front, 
And  there  that  morning  came  the  hunt, 
To  fill  that  quiet  width  of  road 
3 


4  REYNARD  THE  FOX 

As  full  of  men  as  Framilode 
Is  full  of  sea  when  tide  is  in. 

The  stables  were  alive  with  din 

From  dawn  until  the  time  of  meeting. 

A  pad-groom  gave  a  cloth  a  beating, 

Knocking  the  dust  out  with  a  stake. 

Two  men  cleaned  stalls  with  fork  and  rake, 

And  one  went  whistling  to  the  pump, 

The  handle  whined,  ker-lump,  ker-lump, 

The  water  splashed  into  the  pail, 

And,  as  he  went,  it  left  a  trail, 

Lipped  over  on  the  yard's  bricked  paving. 

Two  grooms  (sent  on  before)  were  shaving 

There  in  the  yard,  at  glasses  propped 

On    jutting    bricks;      they    scraped    and 

stropped, 

And  felt  their  chins  and  leaned  and  peered, 
A  woodland  day  was  what  they  feared 
(As  second  horsemen),  shaving  there. 


REYNARD  THE  FOX  5 

Then,  in  the  stalls  where  hunters  were, 

Straw  rustled  as  the  horses  shifted, 

The  hayseeds  ticked  and  haystraws  drifted 

From  racks  as  horses  tugged  their  feed. 

Slow  gulping  sounds  of  steady  greed 

Came    from     each    stall,    and     sometimes 

stampings, 

Whinnies  (at  well-known  steps)  and  ramp- 
ings 
To  see  the  horse  in  the  next  stall. ' 

Outside,  the  spangled  cock  did  call 
To  scattering  grain  that  Martha  flung. 
And  many  a  time  a  mop  was  wrung 
By  Susan  ere  the  floor  was  clean. 
The  harness  room,  that  busy  scene, 
Clinked   and   chinked   from   ostlers  bright- 
ening 

Rings  and  bits  with  dips  of  whitening, 
Rubbing  fox-flecks  out  of  stirrups, 


6  REYNARD  THE  FOX 

Dumbing  buckles  of  their  chirrups 

By  the  touch  of  oily  feathers. 

Some,  with  stag's  bones  rubbed  at  leathers, 

Brushed  at  saddle-flaps  or  hove 

Saddle  linings  to  the  stove. 

Blue  smoke  from  strong  tobacco  drifted 

Out  of  the  yard,  the  passers  snifft  it, 

Mixed  with  the  strong  ammonia  flavour 

Of  horses'  stables  and  the  savour 

Of  saddle-paste  and  polish  spirit 

Which  put  the  gleam  on  flap  and  tirrit. 

The  grooms  in  shirts  with  rolled-up  sleeves, 

Belted  by  girths  of  coloured  weaves, 

Groomed  the  clipped  hunters  in  their  stalls. 

One  said  "My  dad  cured  saddle  galls, 

He  called  it  Doctor  Barton's  cure ; 

Hog's  lard  and  borax,  laid  on  pure." 

And  others  said,  "Ge'  back,  my  son," 

"Stand  over,  girl;  now,  girl,  ha'  done." 

"  Now,  boy,  no  snapping ;  gently.   Crikes 


REYNARD   THE  FOX  7 

He  gives  a  rare  pinch  when  he  likes." 

" Drawn    blood?    I    thought   he   looked    a 

biter." 

"I  give  'em  all  sweet  spit  of  nitre 
For  that,  myself  :  that  sometimes  cures." 
"Now,  Beauty,  mind  them  feet  of  yours." 
They  groomed,  and  sissed  with  hissing  notes 
To  keep  the  dust  out  of  their  throats. 

There  came  again  and  yet  again 
The  feed-box  lid,  the  swish  of  grain, 
Or  Joe's  boots  stamping  in  the  loft, 
The  hay-fork's  stab  and  then  the  soft 
Hay's  scratching  slither  down  the  shoot. 
Then  with  a  thud  some  horse's  foot 
Stamped,  and  the  gulping  munch  again 
Resumed  its  lippings  at  the  grain. 

The  road  outside  the  inn  was  quiet 
Save  for  the  poor,  mad,  restless  pyat 


8  REYNARD   THE  FOX 

Hopping  his  hanging  wicker-cage. 

No  calmative  of  sleep  or  sage 

Will  cure  the  fever  to  be  free. 

He  shook  the  wicker  ceaselessly 

Now  up,  now  down,  but  never  out 

On  wind-waves,  being  blown  about, 

Looking  for  dead  things  good  to  eat. 

His  cage  was  strewn  with  scattered  wheat. 

At  ten  o'clock,  the  Doctor's  lad 
Brought  up  his  master's  hunting  pad 
And  put  him  in  a  stall,  and  leaned 
Against  the  stall,  and  sissed,  and  cleaned 
The  port  and  cannons  of  his  curb. 
He  chewed  a  sprig  of  smelling  herb. 
He  sometimes  stopped,  and  spat,  and  chid 
The  silly  things  his  master  did. 

At  twenty  past,  old  Baldock  strode 

His  ploughman's  straddle  down  the  road. 

An  old  man  with  a  gaunt,  burnt  face ; 


REYNARD  THE  FOX  9 

His  eyes  rapt  back  on  some  far  place, 
Like  some  starved,  half-mad  saint  in  bliss 
In  God's  world  through  the  rags  of  this. 
He  leaned  upon  a  stake  of  ash 
Cut  from  a  sapling :  many  a  gash 
Was  in  his  old,  full-skirted  coat. 
The  twisted  muscles  in  his  throat 
Moved,  as  he  swallowed,  like  taut  cord. 
His  oaken  face  was  seamed  and  gored. 
He  halted  by  the  inn  and  stared 
On  that  far  bliss,  that  place  prepared 
Beyond  his  eyes,  beyond  his  mind. 

Then  Thomas  Copp,  of  Cowfoot's  Wynd, 

Drove  up ;  and  stopped  to  take  a  glass. 

"I  hope  they'll  gallop  on  my  grass," 

He  said,  "My  little  girl  does  sing 

To  see  the  red  coats  galloping. 

It's  good  for  grass,  too,  to  be  trodden 

Except  they  poach  it,  where  it's  sodden." 


10  REYNARD   THE  FOX 

Then  Billy  Waldrist,  from  the  Lynn, 
With  Jockey  Hill,  from  Pitts,  came  in 
And  had  a  sip  of  gin  and  stout 
To  help  the  jockey's  sweatings  out. 
"Rare  day  for  scent,"  the  jockey  said. 

A  pony  like  a  feather  bed 

On  four  short  sticks,  took  place  aside. 

The  little  girl  who  rode  astride 

Watched  everything  with  eyes  that  glowed 

With  glory  in  the  horse  she  rode. 

At  half-past  ten,  some  lads  on  foot 
Came  to  be  beaters  to  a  shoot 
Of  rabbits  at  the  Warren  Hill. 
Rough  sticks  they  had,  and  Hob  and  Jill, 
Their  ferrets,  in  a  bag,  and  netting. 
They  talked  of  dinner-beer  and  betting ; 
And  jeered  at  those  who  stood  around. 
They  rolled  their  dogs  upon  the  ground 


REYNARD   THE  FOX  11 

And  teased  them:   "Rats";   they  cried,  "go 

fetch." 

"Go  seek,  good  Roxer;   'z  bite,  good  betch. 
What  dinner-beer '11  they  give  us,  lad? 
Sex  quarts  the  lot  last  year  we  had. 
They'd  ought  to  give  us  seven  this. 
Seek,  Susan ;  what  a  betch  it  is." 

A  pommle  cob  came  trotting  up 

Round-bellied  like  a  drinking-cup 

Bearing  on  back  a  pommle  man 

Round-bellied  like  a  drinking-can. 

The  clergyman  from  Condicote. 

His  face  was  scarlet  from  his  trot, 

His  white  hair  bobbed  about  his  head 

As  halos  do  round  clergy  dead. 

He  asked  Tom  Copp,  "How  long  to  wait?" 

His  loose  mouth  opened  like  a  gate, 

To  pass  the  wagons  of  his  speech, 

He  had  a  mighty  voice  to  preach 


12  REYNARD   THE  FOX 

Though  indolent  in  other  matters 
He  let  his  children  go  in  tatters. 

His  daughter  Madge  on  foot,  flush-cheekt, 

In  broken  hat  and  boots  that  leakt, 

With  bits  of  hay  all  over  her, 

Her  plain  face  grinning  at  the  stir 

(A     broad    pale     face,     snub-nosed,     with 

speckles 

Of  sandy  eyebrows  sprinkt  with  freckles) 
Came  after  him  and  stood  apart 
Beside  the  darling  of  her  heart, 
Miss  Hattie  Dyce  from  Baydon  Dean ; 
A  big  young  fair  one,  chiselled  clean, 
Brow,  chin  and  nose,  with  great  blue  eyes, 
All  innocence  and  sweet  surprise, 
And  golden  hair  piled  coil  on  coil 
Too  beautiful  for  time  to  spoil. 
They  talked  hi  undertones  together 
Not  of  the  hunting,  nor  the  weather. 


REYNARD  THE  FOX  13 

Old  Steven  from  Scratch  Steven  Place, 
(A  white  beard  and  a  rosy  face), 
Came  next  on  his  stringhalty  grey, 
"I've  come  to  see  the  hounds  away," 
He  said,  "And  ride  a  field  or  two. 
We  old  have  better  things  to  do 
Than  breaking  all  our  necks  for  fun." 
He  shone  on  people  like  the  sun, 
And  on  himself  for  shining  so. 

Three  men  came  riding  in  a  row :  — 
John  Pym,  a  bull-man,  quick  to  strike, 
Gross  and  blunt-headed  like  a  shrike 
Yet  sweet- voiced  as  a  piping  flute ; 
Tom  See,  the  trainer,  from  the  Toot, 
Red,  with  an  angry,  puzzled  face 
And  mouth  twitched  upward  out  of  place> 
Sucking  cheap  grapes  and  spitting  seeds ; 
And  Stone,  of  Bartle's  Cattle  Feeds, 
A  man  whose  bulk  of  flesh  and  bone 


14  REYNARD   THE  FOX 

Made  people  call  him  Twenty  Stone. 
He  was  the  man  who  stood  a  pull 
At  Tencombe  with  the  Jersey  bull 
And  brought  the  bull  back  to  his  stall. 

Some  children  ranged  the  tavern-wall. 
Sucking  then*  thumbs  and  staring  hard ; 
Some  grooms  brought  horses  from  the  yard. 
Jane  Selbie  said  to  Ellen  Tranter, 
"A  lot  on  'em  come  doggin',  ant  her?" 
"A  lot  on  'em,"  said  Ellen,  "look 
There'm  Mr.  Gaunt  of  Water's  Hook. 
They  say  he"  .  .  .   (whispered).      "Law," 

said  Jane. 

Gaunt  flung  his  heel  across  the  mane, 
And  slithered  from  his  horse  and  stamped. 
"Boots    tight,"    he    said,     "my    feet   are 

cramped." 

A  loose-shod  horse  came  clicking  clack ; 
Nick  Wolvesey  on  a  hired  hack 


REYNARD   THE  FOX  15 

Come  tittup,  like  a  cup  and  ball. 

One  saw  the  sun,  moon,  stars  and  all 

The  great  green  earth  twixt  him  and  saddle ; 

Then  Molly  Wolvesey  riding  straddle 

Red  as  a  rose,  with  eyes  like  sparks, 

Two  boys  from  college  out  for  larks 

Hunted  bright  Molly  for  a  smile 

But  were  not  worth  their  quarry's  while. 

Two  eyeglassed  gunners  dressed  in  tweed 
Came  with  a  spaniel  on  a  lead 
And  waited  for  a  fellow  gunner. 
The  parson's  son,  the  famous  runner, 
Came  dressed  to  follow  hounds  on  foot. 
His  knees  were  red  as  yew  tree  root 
From  being  bare,  day  in  day  out  ; 
He  wore  a  blazer,  and  a  clout 
(His  sweater's  arms)  tied  round  his  neck. 
His  football  shorts  had  many  a  speck 
And  splash  of  mud  from  many  a  fall 


16  REYNARD   THE  FOX 

Got  as  he  picked  the  slippery  ball 

Heeled  out  behind  a  breaking  scrum. 

He  grinned  at  people,  but  was  dumb, 

Not  like  these  lousy  foreigners. 

The  otter-hounds  and  harriers 

From  Godstow  to  the  Wye  all  knew  him. 

And  with  him  came  the  stock  which  grew  him 

The  parson  and  his  sporting  wife, 

She  was  a  stout  one,  full  of  life 

With  red,  quick,  kindly,  manly  face. 

She  held  the  knave,  queen,  king  and  ace, 

In  every  hand  she  played  with  men. 

She  was  no  sister  to  the  hen, 

But  fierce  and  minded  to  be  queen. 

She  wore  a  coat  and  skirt  of  green, 

A  waistcoat  cut  of  hunting  red, 

Her  tie  pin  was  a  fox's  head. 

The  parson  was  a  manly  one 

His  jolly  eyes  were  bright  with  fun. 


REYNARD   THE  FOX  17 

His  jolly  mouth  was  well  inclined 
To  cry  aloud  his  jolly  mind 
To  everyone,  in  jolly  terms. 
He  did  not  talk  of  churchyard  worms, 
But  of  our  privilege  as  dust 
To  box  a  lively  bout  with  lust 
Ere  going  to  Heaven  to  rejoice. 
He  loved  the  sound  of  his  own  voice. 
His  talk  was  like  a  charge  of  horse  ; 
His  build  was  all  compact,  for  force, 
Well-knit,  well-made,  well-coloured,  eager, 
He  kept  no  Lent  to  make  him  meagre. 
He  loved  his  God,  himself  and  man. 
He  never  said  "Life's  wretched  span; 
This  wicked  world,"  in  any  sermon. 
This  body  that  we  feed  the  worm  on, 
To  him,  was  jovial  stuff  that  thrilled. 
He  liked  to  see  the  foxes  killed ; 
But  most  he  felt  himself  in  clover 
To  hear  "Hen  left,  hare  right,  cock  over," 
c 


18  REYNARD   THE  FOX 

At  woodside,  when  the  leaves  are  brown. 

Some  grey  cathedral  in  a  town 

Where  drowsy  bells  toll  out  the  time 

To  shaven  closes  sweet  with  lime, 

And  wall-flower  roots  drive  out  of  the  mortar 

All  summer  on  the  Norman  Dortar, 

Was  certain  some  day  to  be  his. 

Nor  would  a  mitre  go  amiss 

To  him,  because  he  governed  well. 

His  voice  was  like  the  tenor  bell 

When  services  were  said  and  sung. 

And  he  had  read  in  many  a  tongue, 

Arabic,  Hebrew,  Spanish,  Greek. 

Two  bright  young  women,  nothing  meek, 

Rode  up  on  bicycles  and  propped 

Their  wheels  in  such  wise  that  they  dropped 

To  bring  the  parson's  son  to  aid. 

Their  cycling  suits  were  tailor-made, 

Smart,  mannish,  pert,  but  feminine. 


REYNARD   THE  FOX  19 

The  colour  and  the  zest  of  wine 

Were  in  their  presence  and  their  bearing ; 

Like  spring,  they  brought  the  thought  of 

pairing. 

The  parson's  lady  thought  them  pert. 
And  they  could  mock  a  man  and  flirt, 
Do  billiard  tricks  with  corks  and  pennji 
Sing  ragtime  songs  and  win  at  tprfnis 
The  silver-cigarette-case-prize. 
They  had  good  colour  and  bright  eyes, 
Bright  hair,  bright  teeth  and  pretty  skin, 
Which  many  lads  had  longed  to  win 
On  darkened  stairways  after  dances. 
Their  reading  was  the  last  romances, 
And  they  were  dashing  hockey  players 
Men  called  them,  "  Jill  and  Joan,  the  slayers." 
They  were  as  bright  as  fresh  sweet-peas. 
Old  Farmer  Bennett  followed  these 
Upon  his  big-boned  savage  black 
Whose  mule-teeth  yellowed  to  bite  back 


20  REYNARD  THE  FOX 

Whatever  came  within  his  reach. 
Old  Bennett  sat  him  like  a  leech 
The  grim  old  rider  seemed  to  be 
As  hard  about  the  mouth  as  he. 

The  beaters  nudged  each  other's  ribs 

With  "There  he  goes,  his  bloody  Nibs. 

He  come  on  Joe  and  Anty  Cop, 

And  beat  'em  with  his  hunting  crop 

Like  tho'  they'd  bin  a  sack  of  beans. 

His  pickers  were  a  pack  of  queans, 

And  Joe  and  Anty  took  a  couple 

He  caught  'em  there,  and  banged  'em  supple. 

Women  and  men,  he  didn't  care 

(He'd  kill  'em  some  day,  if  he  dare) 

He  beat  the  whole  four  nearly  dead. 

'  I'll  learn  'ee  rabbit  in  my  shed, 

That's  how  my  ricks  get  set  afire.' 

That's  what  he  said,  the  bloody  liar ; 

Old  oaf,  I'd  like  to  burn  his  ricks, 


REYNARD   THE  FOX  21 

Th'  old  swine's  too  free  with  fists  and  sticks. 
He  keeps  that  Mrs.  Jones  himselve." 

Just  like  an  axehead  on  its  helve 

Old  Bennett  sat  and  watched  the  gathering. 

He'd  given  many  a  man  a  lathering 

In  field  or  barn,  and  women,  too. 

His  cold  eye  reached  the  women  through 

With  comment,  and  the  men  with  scorn. 

He  hated  women  gently  born ; 

He  hated  all  beyond  his  grasp ; 

For  he  was  minded  like  the  asp 

That  strikes  whatever  is  not  dust. 

Charles    Copse,    of     Copse    Hold    Manor, 

thrust 

Next  into  view.     In  face  and  limb 
The  beauty  and  the  grace  of  him 
Were  like  the  golden  age  returned. 
His  grave  eyes  steadily  discerned 
The  good  in  men  and  what  was  wise. 


22  REYNARD  THE  FOX 

He  had  deep  blue,  mild-coloured  eyes, 
And  shocks  of  harvest-coloured  hair, 
Still  beautiful  with  youth.     An  air 
Or  power  of  kindness  went  about  him ; 
No  heart  of  youth  could  ever  doubt  him 
Or  fail  to  follow  where  he  led. 
He  was  a  genius,  simply  bred, 
And  quite  unconscious  of  his  power. 
He  was  the  very  red  rose  flower 
Of  all  that  coloured  countryside. 
Gauchos  had  taught  him  how  to  ride. 
He  knew  all  arts,  but  practised  most 
The  art  of  bettering  flesh  and  ghost 
In  men  and  lads  down  in  the  mud. 
He  knew  no  class  in  flesh  and  blood. 
He  loved  his  kind.     He  spent  some  pith 
Long  since,  relieving  Ladysmith. 
Many  a  horse  he  trotted  tame, 
Heading  commandos  from  their  aim, 
In  those  old  days  upon  the  veldt. 


REYNARD   THE  FOX  23 

An  old  bear  in  a  scarlet  pelt 

Came  next,  old  Squire  Harridew, 

His  eyebrows  gave  a  man  the  grue 

So  bushy  and  so  fierce  they  were ; 

He  had  a  bitter  tongue  to  swear. 

A  fierce,  hot,  hard,  old,  stupid  squire, 

With  all  his  liver  made  of  fire, 

Small  brain,  great  courage,  mulish  will. 

The  hearts  in  all  his  house  stood  still 

When      someone      crossed      the      squire's 

path. 

For  he  was  terrible  in  wrath, 
And  smashed  whatever  came  to  hand. 
Two  things  he  failed  to  understand, 
The  foreigner  and  what  was  new. 

His  daughters,  Carrie,  Jane  and  Lu 
Rode  with  him,  Carrie  at  his  side. 
His  son,  the  ne'er-do-weel,  had  died 
In  Arizona,  long  before. 


24  REYNARD   THE  FOX 

The  Squire  set  the  greatest  store 

By  Carrie,  youngest  of  the  three, 

And  lovely  to  the  blood  was  she ; 

Blonde,  with  a  face  of  blush  and  cream, 

And  eyes  deep  violet  in  their  gleam, 

Bright  blue  when  quiet  in  repose. 

She  was  a  very  golden  rose. 

And  many  a  man  when  sunset  came 

Would  see  the  manor  windows  flame, 

And  think,  "My  beauty's  home  is  there." 

Queen  Helen  had  less  golden  hair, 

Queen  Cleopatra  paler  lips, 

Queen  Blanche's  eyes  were  in  eclipse, 

By  golden  Carrie's  glancing  by. 

She  had  a  wit  for  mockery 

And  sang  mild,  pretty  senseless  songs 

Of  sunsets,  Heav'n  and  lover's  wrongs, 

Sweet  to  the  Squire  when  he  had  dined. 

A  rosebud  need  not  have  a  mind. 

A  lily  is  not  sweet  from  learning. 


REYNARD  THE  FOX  25 

Jane  looked  like  a  dark  lantern,  burning. 

Outwardly  dark,  unkempt,  uncouth, 

But  minded  like  the  living  truth, 

A  friend  that  nothing  shook  nor  wearied. 

She  was  not "  Darling  Jane'd,"  nor"dearie'd," 

She  was  all  prickles  to  the  touch, 

So  sharp,  that  many  feared  to  clutch, 

So  keen,  that  many  thought  her  bitter. 

She  let  the  little  sparrows  twitter. 

She  had  a  hard  ungracious  way. 

Her  storm  of  hair  was  iron-grey, 

And  she  was  passionate  in  her  heart 

For  women's  souls  that  burn  apart, 

Just  as  her  mother's  had,  with  Squire. 

She  gave  the  sense  of  smouldering  fire. 

She  was  not  happy  being  a  maid, 

At  home,  with  Squire,  but  she  stayed 

Enduring  life,  however  bleak, 

To  guard  her  sisters  who  were  weak, 

And  force  a  life  for  them  from  Squire. 


26  REYNARD   THE  FOX 

And  she  had  roused  and  stood  his  fire 
A  hundred  times,  and  earned  his  hate, 
To  win  those  two  a  better  state. 
Long  years  before  the  Canon's  son 
Had  cared  for  her,  but  he  had  gone 
To  Klondyke,  to  the  mines,  for  gold, 
To  find,  in  some  strange  way  untold 
A  foreign  grave  that  no  men  knew. 

No  depth,  nor  beauty,  was  in  Lu, 
But  charm  and  fun,  for  she  was  merry, 
Round,  sweet  and  little  like  a  cherry, 
With  laughter  like  a  robin's  singing ; 
She  was  not  kittenlike  and  clinging, 
But  pert  and  arch  and  fond  of  flirting, 
In  mocking  ways  that  were  not  hurting, 
And  merry  ways  that  women  pardoned. 
Not  being  married  yet  she  gardened. 
She  loved  sweet  music ;  she  would  sing 
Songs  made  before  the  German  King 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  27 

Made  England  German  in  her  mind. 
She  sang  "My  lady  is  unkind," 
"The  Hunt  is  up,"  and  those  sweet  things 
Which  Thomas  Campion  set  to  strings 
"Thrice  toss,"  and  "What,"  and   "Where 
are  now?" 

The  next  to  come  was  Major  Howe 

Driv'n  in  a  dog-cart  by  a  groom. 

The  testy  major  was  in  fume 

To  find  no  hunter  standing  waiting ; 

The  groom  who  drove  him  caught  a  rating, 

The  groom  who  had  the  horse  in  stable, 

Was  damned  hi  half  the  tongues  of  Babel. 

The  Major  being  hot  and  heady 

When  horse  or  dinner  was  not  ready. 

He  was  a  lean,  tough,  liverish  fellow, 

With  pale  blue  eyes  (the  whites  pale  yellow), 

Moustache  clipped  toothbrush- wise,  and  jaws 

Shaved  bluish  like  old  partridge  claws. 


28  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

When  he  had  stripped  his  coat  he  made 
A  speckless  presence  for  parade, 
New  pink,  white  cords,  and  glossy  tops 
New  gloves,  the  newest  thing  in  crops, 
Worn  with  an  air  that  well  expressed 
His  sense  that  no  one  else  was  dressed. 

Quick  trotting  after  Major  Howe 

Came  Doctor  Frome  of  Quickemshow, 

A  smiling  silent  man  whose  brain 

Knew  all  of  every  secret  pain 

In  every  man  and  woman  there. 

Their  inmost  lives  were  all  laid  bare 

To  him,  because  he  touched  their  lives 

When  strong  emotions  sharp  as  knives 

Brought  out  what  sort  of  soul  each  was. 

As  secret  as  the  graveyard  grass 

He  was,  as  he  had  need  to  be. 

At  some  tune  he  had  had  to  see 

Each  person  there,  sans  clothes,  sans  mask, 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  29 

Sans  lying  even,  when  to  ask 
Probed  a  tamed  spirit  into  truth. 

Richard,  his  son,  a  jolly  youth 

Rode  with  him,  fresh  from  Thomas's, 

As  merry  as  a  yearling  is 

In  maytime  in  a  clover  patch. 

He  was  a  gallant  chick  to  hatch 

Big,  brown  and  smiling,  blithe  and  kind, 

With  all  his  father's  love  of  mind 

And  greater  force  to  give  it  act. 

To  see  him  when  the  scrum  was  packt, 

Heave,  playing  forward,  was  a  sight. 

His  tackling  was  the  crowd's  delight 

In  many  a  danger  close  to  goal. 

The  pride  in  the  three  quarter's  soul 

Dropped,  like  a  wet  rag,  when  he  collared. 

He  was  as  steady  as  a  bollard, 

And  gallant  as  a  skysail  yard. 

He  rode  a  chestnut  mare  which  sparred. 


30  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

In  good  St.  Thomas'  Hospital, 
He  was  the  crown  imperial 
Of  all  the  scholars  of  his  year. 

The  Harold  lads,  from  Tencombe  Weir, 
Came  all  on  foot  in  corduroys, 
Poor  widowed  Mrs.  Harold's  boys, 
Dick,  Hal  and  Charles,  whose  father  died. 
(Will  Masemore  shot  him  in  the  side 
By  accident  at  Masemore  Farm 
A  hazel  knocked  Will  Masemore's  arm 
In  getting  through  a  hedge ;   his  gun 
Was  not  half-cocked,  so  it  was  done 
And  those  three  boy,s  left  fatherless.) 
Their  gaitered  legs  were  in  a  mess 
With  good  red  mud  from  twenty  ditches 
Hal's  face  was  plastered  like  his  breeches 
Dick  chewed  a  twig  of  juniper. 
They  kept  at  distance  from  the  stir 
Their  loss  had  made  them  lads  apart. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  31 

Next  came  the  Colway's  pony  cart 
From  Coin  St.  Evelyn's  with  the  party 
Hugh  Colway  jovial,  bold  and  hearty 
And  Polly  Colway's  brother,  John 
(Their  horses  had  been  both  sent  on) 
And  Polly  Colway  drove  them  there. 
Poor  pretty  Polly  Colway's  hair. 
The  grey  mare  killed  her  at  the  brook 
Down  Seven  Springs  Mead  at  Water  Hook, 
Just  one  month  later,  poor  sweet  woman. 
Her  brother  was  a  rat-faced  Roman 
Lean,    puckered,     tight-skinned    from    the 

sea 

Commander  in  the  Canace 
Able  to  drive  a  horse,  or  ship, 
Or  crew  of  men,  without  a  whip 
By  will,  as  long  as  they  could  go. 
His  face  would  wrinkle,  row  on  row, 
From  mouth  to  hair-roots  when  he  laught 
He  looked  ahead  as  though  his  craft 


32  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

Were  with  him  still,  in  dangerous  channels. 
He  and  Hugh  Colway  tossed  their  flannels 
Into  the  pony-cart  and  mounted. 
Six  foiled  attempts  the  watchers  counted, 
The  horses  being  bickering  things, 
That  so  much  scarlet  made  like  kings, 
Such  sidling  and  such  pawing  and  shifting. 

When  Hugh  was  up  his  mare  went  drifting 
Sidelong  and  feeling  with  her  heels 
For  horses'  legs  and  poshay  wheels, 
While  lather  creamed  her  neat  dipt  skin. 
Hugh  guessed  her  foibles  with  a  grin. 
He  was  a  rich  town-merchant's  son, 
A  wise  and  kind  man  fond  of  fun, 
Who  loved  to  have  a  troop  of  friends 
At  Coin  St.  Eves  for  all  week-ends, 
And  troops  of  children  in  for  tea 
He  gloried  in  a  Christmas  Tree. 
And  Polly  was  his  heart's  best  treasure, 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  33 

And  Polly  was  a  golden  pleasure 
To  everyone,  to  see  or  hear. 

Poor  Polly's  dying  struck  him  queer, 
He  was  a  darkened  man  thereafter, 
Cowed  silent,  he  would  wince  at  laughter 
And  be  so  gentle  it  was  strange 
Even  to  see.     Life  loves  to  change. 

Now  Coin  St.  Evelyn's  hearths  are  cold 

The  shutters  up,  the  hunters  sold, 

And  green  mould  damps  the  locked  front  door. 

But  this  was  still  a  month  before, 

And  Polly,  golden  in  the  chaise, 

Still  smiled,  and  there  were  golden  days, 

Still  thirty  days,  for  those  dear  lovers. 

The  Riddens  came,  from  Ocle  Covers, 
Bill  Ridden  riding  Stormalong, 
(By  Tempest  out  of  Love-me-long) 


34  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

A  proper  handful  of  a  horse, 

That  nothing  but  the  Aintree  course 

Could  bring  to  terms,  save  Bill  perhaps. 

All  sport,  from  bloody  war  to  craps, 

Came  well  to  Bill,  that  big-mouthed  smiler  ; 

They  nick-named  him  "the  mug-beguiler", 

For  Billy  lived  too  much  with  horses 

In  coper's  yards  and  sharper's  courses, 

To  lack  the  sharper-coper  streak. 

He  did  not  turn  the  other  cheek, 

When  struck  (as  English  Christians  do), 

He  boxed  like  a  Whitechapel  Jew, 

And  many  a  time  his  knuckles  bled 

Against  a  race-course-gipsy's  head. 

For  "hit  him  first  and  argue  later," 

Was  truth  at  Billy's  alma  mater, 

Not  love,  not  any  bosh  of  love. 

His  hand  was  like  a  chamois  glove 

And  riding  was  his  chief  delight. 

He  bred  the  chaser  Chinese-white, 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  35 

From  Lilybud  by  Mandarin. 
And  when  his  mouth  tucked  corners  in, 
And  scent  was  high  and  hounds  were  going, 
He  went  across  a  field  like  snowing 
And  tackled  anything  that  came. 

His  wife,  Sal  Ridden,  was  the  same, 
A  loud,  bold,  blonde  abundant  mare, 
With  white  horse  teeth  and  stocks  of  hair, 
(Like  polished  brass)  and  such  a  manner 
It  flaunted  from  her  like  a  banner. 
Her  father  was  Tom  See  the  trainer ; 
She  rode  a  lovely  earth-disdainer 
Which  she  and  Billy  wished  to  sell. 

Behind  them  rode  her  daughter  Bell, 

A  strange  shy  lovely  girl  whose  face 

Was  sweet  with  thought  and  proud  with  race, 

And  bright  with  joy  at  riding  there. 

She  was  as  good  as  blowing  air 


36  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

But  shy  and  difficult  to  know 

The  kittens  in  the  barley-mow, 

The  setter's  toothless  puppies  sprawling, 

The  blackbird  in  the  apple  calling, 

All  knew  her  spirit  more  than  we 

So  delicate  these  maidens  be 

In  loving  lovely  helpless  things. 

The  Manor  set,  from  Tencombe  Rings, 

Came,  with  two  friends,  a  set  of  six. 

Ed  Manor  with  his  cockerel  chicks, 

Nob,  Cob  and  Bunny  as  they  called  them, 

(God  help  the  school  or  rule  which  galled 

them; 
They  carried  head)  and  friends  from  town. 

Ed  Manor  trained  on  Tencombe  Down. 
He  once  had  been  a  famous  bat, 
He  had  that  stroke,  "the  Manor-pat," 
Which  snicked  the  ball  for  three,  past  cover. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  37 

He  once  scored  twenty  in  an  over, 

But  now  he  cricketed  no  more. 

He  purpled  in  the  face  and  swore 

At  all  three  sons,  and  trained,  and  told 

Long  tales  of  cricketing  of  old, 

When  he  alone  had  saved  his  side. 

Drink  made  it  doubtful  if  he  lied, 

Drink  purpled  him,  he  could  not  face 

The  fences  now,  nor  go  the  pace 

He  brought  his  friends  to  meet ;  no  more. 

His  big  son  Nob,  at  whom  he  swore, 
Swore  back  at  him,  for  Nob  was  surly, 
Tall,  shifty,  sullen-smiling,  burly, 
Quite  fearless,  built  with  such  a  jaw 
That  no  man's  rule  could  be  his  law 
Nor  any  woman's  son  his  master. 
Boxing  he  relished.    He  could  plaster 
All  those  who  boxed  out  Tencombe  way. 
A  front  tooth  had  been  knocked  away 


38  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

Two  days  before,  which  put  his  mouth 
A  little  to  the  east  of  south. 
And  put  a  venom  in  his  laughter. 

Cob  was  a  lighter  lad,  but  dafter ; 
Just  past  eighteen,  while  Nob  was  twenty. 
Nob  had  no  nerves  but  Cob  had  plenty 
So  Cobby  went  where  Nobby  led. 
He  had  no  brains  inside  his  head, 
Was  fearless,  just  like  Nob,  but  put 
Some  clog  of  folly  round  his  foot, 
Where  Nob  put  will  of  force  or  fraud ; 
He  spat  aside  and  muttered  Gawd 
When  vext ;  he  took  to  whiskey  kindly 
And  loved  and  followed  Nobby  blindly, 
And  rode  as  in  the  saddle  born. 

Bun  looked  upon  the  two  with  scorn 
He  was  the  youngest,  and  was  wise. 
He,  too,  was  fair,  with  sullen  eyes, 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  39 

He  too  (a  year  before)  had  had 
A  zest  for  going  to  the  bad, 
With  Cob  and  Nob.     He  knew  the  joys 
Of  drinking  with  the  stable-boys, 
Or  smoking  while  he  filled  his  skin 
With  pints  of  Guinness  dashed  with  gin 
And  Cobby  yelled  a  bawdy  ditty, 
Or  cutting  Nobby  for  the  kitty, 
And  damning  peoples'  eyes  and  guts, 
Or  drawing  evening-church  for  sluts 
He  knew  them  all  and  now  was  quit. 

Sweet  Polly  Colway  managed  it. 

And  Bunny  changed.     He  dropped  his  drink, 

(The  pleasant  pit's  seductive  brink), 

He  started  working  in  the  stable, 

And  well,  for  he  was  shrewd  and  able. 

He  left  the  doubtful  female  friends 

Picked  up  at  Evening-Service  ends, 

He  gave  up  cards  and  swore  no  more. 


40  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

Nob  called  him  "the  Reforming  Whore," 
"The  Soul's  Awakening,"  or  "The  Text," 
Nob  being  always  coarse  when  vext. 

Ed  Manor's  friends  were  Hawke  and  Sladd, 
Old  college  friends,  the  last  he  had, 
Rare  horsemen,  but  their  nerves  were  shaken 
By  all  the  whiskey  they  had  taken. 
Hawke's  hand  was  trembling  on  his  rein. 
His  eyes  were  dead-blue  like  a  vein, 
His  peaked  sad  face  was  touched  with  breed- 
ing, 

His  querulous  mind  was  quaint  from  reading, 
His  piping  voice  still  quirked  with  fun. 
Many  a  mad  thing  he  had  done, 
Riding  to  hounds  and  going  to  races. 
A  glimmer  of  the  gambler's  graces, 
Wit,  courage,  devil,  touched  his  talk. 

Sladd's  big  fat  face  was  white  as  chalk, 
His  mind  went  wandering,  swift  yet  solemn, 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  41 

Twixt  winning-post  and  betting  column, 
The  weights  and  forms  and  likely  colts. 
He  said  "This  road  is  full  of  jolts. 
I  shall  be  seasick  riding  here. 
O  damn  last  night  with  that  liqueur." 

Len  Stokes  rode  up  on  Peterkin ; 
He  owned  the  Downs  by  Baydon  Whin ; 
And  grazed  some  thousand  sheep ;   the  boy 
Grinned  round  at  men  with  jolly  joy 
At  being  alive  and  being  there. 
His  big  round  face  and  mop  of  hair 
Shone,  his  great  teeth  shone  in  his  grin, 
The  clean  blood  in  his  clear  tanned  skin 
Ran  merry,  and  his  great  voice  mocked 
His  young  friends  present  till  they  rocked. 

Steer  Harpit  came  from  Rowell  Hill, 
A  small,  frail  man,  all  heart  and  will, 
A  sailor  as  his  voice  betrayed. 


42  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

He  let  his  whip-thong  droop  and  played 
At  snicking  off  the  grass-blades  with  it. 
John  Hankerton,  from  Compton  Lythitt, 
Was  there  with  Pity  Hankerton, 
And  Mike,  their  good-for-little  son, 
Back,  smiling,  from  his  seventh  job. 
Joan  Urch  was  there  upon  her  cob. 
Tom  Sparsholt  on  his  lanky  grey. 
John  Restrop  from  Hope  Goneaway. 
And  Vaughan,  the  big  black  handsome  devil, 
Loose-lipped  with  song  and  wine  and  revel 
All  rosy  from  his  morning  tub. 

The  Godsdown  tigress  with  her  cub 
(Lady  and  Tommy  Crowmarsh)  came. 
The  great  eyes  smouldered  in  the  dame, 
Wit  glittered,  too,  which  few  men  saw. 
There  was  more  beauty  there  than  claw. 
Tommy  in  bearing,  horse  and  dress 
Was  black,  fastidious,  handsomeness, 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  43 

Choice  to  his  trimmed  soul's  fingertips. 
Heredia's  sonnets  on  his  lips. 
A  line  undrawn,  a  plate  not  bitten, 
A  stone  uncut,  a  phrase  unwritten, 
That  would  be  perfect,  made  his  mind. 
A  choice  pull,  from  a  rare  print,  signed, 
Was  Tommy.     He  collected  plate, 
(Old  Sheffield)  and  he  owned  each  state 
Of  all  the  Meryon  Paris  etchings. 
Colonel  Sir  Button  Budd  of  Fletchings 
Was  there ;   Long  Robert  Thrupp  was  there, 
(Three  yards  of  him  men  said  there  were), 
Long  as  the  King  of  Prussia's  fancy. 
He  rode  the  longlegged  Necromancy, 
A  useless  racehorse  that  could  canter. 
George  Childrey  with  his  jolly  banter 
Was  there,  Nick  Childrey,  too,  come  down 
The  night  before  from  London  town, 
To  hunt  and  have  his  lungs  blown  clean. 
The  Ilsley  set  from  Tuttocks  Green 


44  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

Was  there  (old  Henry  Ilsley  drove), 
Carlotta  Ilsley  brought  her  love 
A  flop-jowled  broker  from  the  city. 
Men  pitied  her,  for  she  was  pretty. 

Some   grooms   and   second   horsemen   mus- 
tered. 

A  lot  of  men  on  foot  were  clustered 
Round  the  inn-door,  all  busy  drinking, 
One  heard  the  kissing  glasses  clinking 
In  passage  as  the  tray  was  brought. 
Two  terriers  (which  they  had  there)  fought 
There  on  the  green,  a  loud,  wild  whirl. 
Bell  stopped  them  like  a  gallant  girl. 
The  hens  behind  the  tavern  clucked. 

Then  on  a  horse  which  bit  and  bucked 
(The  half-broke  four-year-old  Marauder) 
Came  Minton-Price  of  th'  Afghan  border 
Lean,  puckered,  yellowed,  knotted,  scarred, 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  45 

Tough  as  a  hide-rope  twisted  hard, 
Tense  tiger-sinew  knit  to  bone. 
Strange-wayed  from  having  lived  alone 
With  Kafir,  Afghan  and  Beloosh 
In  stations  frozen  in  the  Koosh 
Where  nothing  but  the  bullet  sings. 
His  mind  had  conquered  many  things 
Painting,  mechanics,  physics,  law, 
White-hot,  hand-beaten  things  to  draw 
Self-hammered  from  his  own  soul's  stithy, 
His    speech    was    blacksmith-sparked    and 

pithy. 

Danger  had  been  his  brother  bred ; 
The  stones  had  often  been  his  bed 
In  bickers  with  the  border-thieves. 

A  chestnut  mare  with  swerves  and  heaves 
Came  plunging,  scattering  all  the  crowd, 
She  tossed  her  head  and  laughed  aloud 
And  bickered  sideways  past  the  meet. 


46  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

From  pricking  ears  to  mincing  feet 
She  was  all  tense  with  blood  and  quiver 
You     saw     her     clipt     hide     twitch     and 

shiver 

Over  her  netted  cords  of  veins. 
She  carried  Cothill,  of  the  Sleins ; 
A  tall,  black,  bright-eyed  handsome  lad. 
Great  power  and  great  grace  he  had. 
Men  hoped  the  greatest  things  of  him, 
His  grace  made  people  think  him  slim, 
But  he  was  muscled  like  a  horse 
A  sculptor  would  have  wrought  his  torse 
In  bronze  or  marble  for  Apollo. 
He  loved  to  hurry  like  a  swallow 
For  miles  on  miles  of  short-grassed  sweet 
Blue-harebelled  downs  where  dewy  feet 
Of  pure  winds  hurry  ceaselessly. 
He  loved  the  downland  like  a  sea, 
The  downland  where  the  kestrels  hover ; 
The  downland  had  him  for  a  lover. 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  47 

And  every  other  thing  he  loved 
In  which  a  clean  free  spirit  moved. 

So  beautiful,  he  was,  so  bright. 
He  looked  to  men  like  young  delight 
Gone  courting  April  maidenhood, 
That  has  the  primrose  in  her  blood, 
He  on  his  mincing  lady  mare. 

Ock  Gurney  and  old  Pete  were  there, 
Riding  their  bonny  cobs  and  swearing. 
Ock's  wife  had  giv'n  them  both  a  fairing, 
A  horse-rosette,  red,  white  and  blue. 
Their  cheeks  were  brown  as  any  brew, 
And  every  comer  to  the  meet 
Said  "Hello,  Ock"  or  "Morning,  Pete; 
Be  you  a  going  to  a  wedding?" 
"Why,  noa,"  they  said,  "we'm  going  a  bed- 
ding; 
Now  ben't  us,  uncle,  ben't  us,  Ock?" 


48  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

Pete  Gurney  was  a  lusty  cock 
Turned  sixty-three,  but  bright  and  hale, 
A  dairy-farmer  in  the  vale, 
Much  like  a  robin  in  the  face, 
Much  character  in  little  space, 
With  little  eyes  like  burning  coal. 
His  mouth  was  like  a  slit  or  hole 
In  leather  that  was  seamed  and  lined. 
He  had  the  russet-apple  mind 
That  betters  as  the  weather  worsen. 
He  was  a  manly  English  person, 
Kind  to  the  core,  brave,  merry,  true ; 
One  grief  he  had,  a  grief  still  new, 
That  former  Parson  joined  with  Squire 
In  putting  down  the  Playing  Quire, 
In  church,  and  putting  organ  in. 
"Ah,  boys,  that  was  a  pious  din 
That  Quire  was ;  a  pious  praise 
The  noise  was  that  we  used  to  raise ; 
I  and  my  serpent,  George  with  his'n, 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  49 

On  Easter  Day  in  He  is  Risen, 

Or  blessed  Christmas  in  Venite ; 

And  how  the  trombone  came  in  mighty, 

In  Alleluias  from  the  heart. 

Pious,  for  each  man  played  his  part, 

Not  like  'tis  now."    Thus  he,  still  sore 

For  changes  forty  years  before, 

When  all  (that  could)  in  time  and  tune, 

Blew  trumpets  to  the  newe  moon. 

He  was  a  bachelor,  from  choice. 

He  and  his  nephew  farmed  the  B'oyce 

Prime  pasture  land  for  thirty  cows. 

Ock's  wife,  Selina  Jane,  kept  house, 

And  jolly  were  the  three  together. 

Ock  had  a  face  like  summer  weather 
A  broad  red  sun,  split  by  a  smile. 
He  mopped  his  forehead  all  the  while, 
And    said    "By    damn,"    and    "Ben't    us, 
Unk?" 


60  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

His  eyes  were  close  and  deeply  sunk. 
He  cursed  his  hunter  like  a  lover, 
"Now  blast  your  soul,  my  dear,  give  over. 
Woa,  now,  my  pretty,  damn  your  eyes." 
Like  Pete  he  was  of  middle  size, 
Dean-oak-like,  stuggy,  strong  in  shoulder, 
He  stood  a  wrestle  like  a  boulder, 
He  had  a  back  for  pitching  hay. 
His  singing  voice  was  like  a  bay. 
In  talk  he  had  a  sideways  spit, 
Each  minute,  to  refresh  his  wit. 
He  cracked  Brazil  nuts  with  his  teeth. 
He  challenged  Cobbett  of  the  Heath 
(Weight-lifting  champion)  once,  but  lost. 
Hunting  was  what  he  loved  the  most, 
Next  to  his  wife  and  Uncle  Pete. 
With  beer  to  drink  and  cheese  to  eat, 
And  rain  in  May  to  fill  the  grasses, 
This  life  was  not  a  dream  that  passes 
To  Ock,  but  like  the  summer  flower. 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  51 

But  now  the  clock  had  struck  the  hour, 
And  round  the  corner,  down  the  road 
The  bob-bob-bobbing  serpent  flowed 
With  three  black  knobs  upon  its  spine ; 
Three  bobbing  black-caps  in  a  line. 
A  glimpse  of  scarlet  at  the  gap 
Showed  underneath  each  bobbing  cap, 
And  at  the  corner  by  the  gate, 
One  heard  Tom  Dansey  give  a  rate, 
"Hep,  Drop  it,  Jumper;  have  a  care" 
There  came  a  growl,  half-rate,  half-swear, 
A  spitting  crack,  a  tuneful  whimper 
And  sweet  religion  entered  Jumper. 

There  was  a  general  turn  of  faces, 
The  men  and  horses  shifted  places, 
And  round  the  corner  came  the  hunt, 
Those  feathery  things,  the  hounds,  in  front, 
Intent,  wise,  dipping,  trotting,  straying, 
Smiling  at  people,  shoving,  playing, 


52  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

Nosing  to  children's  faces,  waving 
Their  feathery  sterns,  and  all  behaving, 
One  eye  to  Dansey  on  Maroon. 
Their  padding  cat-feet  beat  a  tune, 
And  though  they  trotted  up  so  quiet 
Their  noses  brought  them  news  of  riot, 
Wild  smells  of  things  with  living  blood, 
Hot  smells,  against  the  grippers  good, 
Of  weasel,  rabbit,  cat  and  hare, 
Whose  feet  had  been  before  them  there, 
Whose  taint  still  tingled  every  breath ; 
But  Dansey  on  Maroon  was  death, 
So,  though  their  noses  roved,  their  feet 
Larked  and  trit-trotted  to  the  meet. 

Bill  Tall  and  Ell  and  Mirtie  Key 
(Aged  fourteen  years  between  the  three) 
Were  flooded  by  them  at  the  bend, 
They  thought  their  little  lives  would  end, 
For  grave  sweet  eyes  looked  into  theirs, 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  53 

Cold  noses  came,  and  clean  short  hairs 

And  tails  all  crumpled  up  like  ferns, 

A  sea  of  moving  heads  and  sterns, 

All  round  them,  brushing  coat  and  dress ; 

One  paused,  expecting  a  caress. 

The  children  shrank  into  each  other, 

Shut    eyes,    clutched    tight,    and    shouted 

"Mother" 
With  mouths  wide  open,  catching  tears. 

Sharp  Mrs.  Tall  allayed  their  fears, 

"Err  out  the  road,  the  dogs  won't  hurt  'ee. 

There  now,  you've  cried  your  faces  dirty. 

More  cleaning  up  for  me  to  do. 

What?    Cry  at  dogs,  great  lumps  like  you?" 

She  licked  her  handkerchief  and  smeared 

Their  faces  where  the  dirt  appeared. 

The  hunt  trit-trotted  to  the  meeting, 
Tom  Dansey  touching  cap  to  greeting, 


54  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

Slow-lifting  crop-thong  to  the  rim, 
No  hunter  there  got  more  from  him 
Except  some  brightening  of  the  eye. 
He  halted  at  the  Cock  and  Pye, 
The  hounds  drew  round  him  on  the  green, 
Arrogant,  Daffodil  and  Queen, 
Closest,  but  all  in  little  space. 
Some  lolled  their  tongues,  some   made  gri- 
mace, 

Yawning,  or  tilting  nose  in  quest, 
All  stood  and  looked  about  with  zest, 
They  were  uneasy  as  they  waited. 
Their  sires  and  dams  had  been  well-mated, 
They  were  a  lovely  pack  for  looks ; 
Their  forelegs  drumsticked  without  crooks, 
Straight,  without  overtread  or  bend, 
Muscled  to  gallop  to  the  end, 
With  neat  feet  round  as  any  cat's. 
Great  chested,  muscled  in  the  slats, 
Bright,  clean,  short-coated,  broad  in  shoulder 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  55 

With  stag-like  eyes  that  seemed  to  smoulder. 
The    heads    well-cocked,    the    clean    necks 

strong ; 
Brows     broad,     ears     close,     the    muzzles 

long; 

And  all  like  racers  in  the  thighs ; 
Their  noses  exquisitely  wise, 
Their  minds  being  memories  of  smells ; 
Their  voices  like  a  ring  of  bells ; 
Their  sterns  all  spirit,  cock  and  feather ; 
Their  colours  like  the  English  weather, 
Magpie  and  hare,  and  badger-pye, 
Like  minglings  in  a  double  dye, 
Some  smutty-nosed,  some  tan,  none  bald ; 
Their  manners  were  to  come  when  called, 
Their  flesh  was  sinew  knit  to  bone, 
Their  courage  like  a  banner  blown. 
Their  joy,  to  push  him  out  of  cover, 
And  hunt  him  till  they  rolled  him  over. 
They  were  as  game  as  Robert  Dover. 


56  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

Tom  Dansey  was  a  famous  whip 
Trained  as  a  child  in  horsemanship 
Entered,  as  soon  as  he  was  able 
As  boy  at  Caunter's  racing  stable ; 
There,  like  the  other  boys,  he  slept 
In  stall  beside  the  horse  he  kept, 
Snug  in  the  straw ;  and  Caunter's  stick 
Brought  morning  to  him  all  too  quick. 
He  learned  the  high  quick  gingery  ways 
Of  thoroughbreds ;  his  stable  days 
Made  him  a  rider,  groom  and  vet. 
He  promised  to  be  too  thickset 
For  jockeying,  so  left  it  soon. 
Now  he  was  whip  and  rode  Maroon. 

He  was  a  small,  lean,  wiry  man 
With  sunk  cheeks  weathered  to  a  tan 
Scarred  by  the  spikes  of  hawthorn  sprays 
Dashed  thro',  head  down,  on  going  days, 
In  haste  to  see  the  line  they  took. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  57 

There  was  a  beauty  in  his  look 
It  was  intent.     His  speech  was  plain. 
Maroon's  head,  reaching  to  the  rein, 
Had  half  his  thought  before  he  spoke. 
His  "gone  away,"  when  foxes  broke, 
Was  like  a  bell.    His  chief  delight 
Was  hunting  fox  from  noon  to  night. 
His  pleasure  lay  in  hounds  and  horses, 
He  loved  the  Seven  Springs  water-courses, 
Those  flashing  brooks  (in  good  sound  grass, 
Where  scent  would  hang  like  breath  on  glass). 
He  loved  the  English  countryside ; 
The  wine-leaved  bramble  in  the  ride, 
The  lichen  on  the  apple-trees, 
The  poultry  ranging  on  the  lees, 
The  farms,  the  moist  earth-smelling  cover, 
His  wife's  green  grave  at  Mitcheldover, 
Where  snowdrops  pushed  at  the  first  thaw. 
Under  his  hide  his  heart  was  raw 
With  joy  and  pity  of  these  things. 


58  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

The  second  whip  was  Kitty  Myngs 
Still  but  a  lad  but  keen  and  quick 
(Son  of  old  Myngs  who  farmed  the  Wick) 
A  horse-mouthed  lad  who  knew  his  work. 
He  rode  the  big  black  horse,  the  Turk, 
And  longed  to  be  a  huntsman  bold. 
He  had  the  horse-look,  sharp  and  old, 
With  much  good-nature  in  his  face. 
His  passion  was  to  go  the  pace 
His  blood  was  crying  for  a  taming. 
He  was  the  Devil's  chick  for  gaming, 
He  was  a  rare  good  lad  to  box. 
He  sometimes  had  a  main  of  cocks 
Down  at  the  Flags.     His  job  with  hounds 
At  present  kept  his  blood  in  bounds 
From  rioting  and  running  hare. 
Tom  Dansey  made  him  have  a  care 
He  worshipped  Dansey  heart  and  soul. 
To  be  a  huntsman  was  his  goal 
To  be  with  hounds,  to  charge  full  tilt 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  59 

Blackthorns  that  made  the  gentry  wilt 

Was  his  ambition  and  his  hope. 

He  was  a  hot  colt  needing  rope 

He  was  too  quick  to  speak  his  passion 

To  suit  his  present  huntsman's  fashion. 

The  huntsman,  Robin  Dawe,  looked  round, 
He  sometimes  called  a  favourite  hound, 
Gently,  to  see  the  creature  turn 
Look  happy  up  and  wag  his  stern. 
He  smiled  and  nodded  and  saluted, 
To  those  who  hailed  him,  as  it  suited. 
And  patted  Pip's,  his  hunter's  neck. 
His  new  pink  was  without  a  speck ; 
He  was  a  red-faced  smiling  fellow, 
His  voice  clear  tenor,  full  and  mellow, 
His  eyes,  all  fire,  were  black  and  small. 
He  had  been  smashed  in  many  a  fall. 
His  eyebrow  had  a  white  curved  mark 
Left  by  the  bright  shoe  of  The  Lark, 


60  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

Down  in  a  ditch  by  Seven  Springs. 
His  coat  had  all  been  trod  to  strings, 
His  ribs  laid  bare  and  shoulder  broken 
Being  jumped  on  down  at  Water's  Oaken, 
The  time  his  horse  came  down  and  rolled. 
His  face  was  of  the  country  mould 
Such  as  the  mason  sometimes  cutted 
On  English  moulding-ends  which  jutted 
Out  of  the  church  walls,  centuries  since. 
And  as  you  never  know  the  quince, 
How  good  he  is,  until  you  try, 
So,  in  Dawe's  face,  what  met  the  eye 
Was  only  part,  what  lay  behind 
Was  English  character  and  mind. 
Great  kindness,  delicate  sweet  feeling, 
(Most  shy,  most  clever  in  concealing 
Its  depth)  for  beauty  of  all  sorts, 
Great  manliness  and  love  of  sports, 
A  grave  wise  thoughtfulness  and  truth, 
A  merry  fun,  outlasting  youth, 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  61 

A  courage  terrible  to  see 
And  mercy  for  his  enemy. 

He  had  a  clean-shaved  face,  but  kept 

A  hedge  of  whisker  neatly  clipt, 

A  narrow  strip  or  picture  frame 

(Old  Dawe,  the  woodman,  did  the  same), 

Under  his  chin  from  ear  to  ear. 

But  now  the  resting  hounds  gave  cheer, 
Joyful  and  Arrogant  and  Catch-him, 
Smelt  the  glad  news  and  ran  to  snatch  him, 
The  Master's  dogcart  turned  the  bend. 
Damsel  and  Skylark  knew  their  friend ; 
A  thrill  ran  through  the  pack  like  fire, 
And  little  whimpers  ran  in  quire. 
The  horses  cocked  and  pawed  and  whickered, 
Young  Cothill's  chaser  kicked  and  bickered, 
And  stood  on  end  and  struck  out  sparks. 
Joyful  and  Catch-him  sang  like  larks, 


62  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

There  was  the  Master  in  the  trap, 
Clutching  old  Roman  in  his  lap, 
Old  Roman,  crazy  for  his  brothers, 
And  putting  frenzy  in  the  others, 
To  set  them  at  the  dogcart  wheels, 
With  thrusting  heads  and  little  squeals. 

The  Master  put  old  Roman  by, 
And  eyed  the  thrusters  heedfully, 
He  called  a  few  pet  hounds  and  fed 
Three  special  friends  with  scraps  of  bread, 
Then  peeled  his  wraps,  climbed  down  and 

strode 

Through  all  those  clamourers  in  the  road, 
Saluted  friends,  looked  round  the  crowd, 
Saw  Harridew's  three  girls  and  bowed, 
Then  took  White  Rabbit  from  the  groom. 

He  was  Sir  Peter  Bynd,  of  Coombe ; 
Past  sixty  now,  though  hearty  still, 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  63 

A  living  picture  of  good-will, 

An  old,  grave  soldier,  sweet  and  kind, 

A  courtier  with  a  knightly  mind, 

Who  felt  whatever  thing  he  thought. 

His  face  was  scarred,  for  he  had  fought 

Five  wars  for  us.     Within  his  face 

Courage  and  power  had  their  place, 

Rough  energy,  decision,  force. 

He  smiled  about  him  from  his  horse. 

He  had  a  welcome  and  salute 

For  all,  on  horse  or  wheel  or  foot, 

* 

Whatever  kind  of  life  each  followed. 

His  tanned,  drawn  cheeks  looked  old  and 

hollowed, 

But  still  his  bright  blue  eyes  were  young, 
And  when  the  pack  crashed  into  tongue, 
And  staunch  White  Rabbit  shook  like  fire, 
He  sent  him  at  it  like  a  flier, 
And     lived     with     hounds     while     horses 

could. 


64  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

"They'm  lying  in  the  Ghost  Heath  Wood, 
Sir  Peter,"  said  an  earth-stopper, 
(Old  Baldy  Hill),  "You'll  find  'em  there. 
'Z  I  come'd  across  I  smell  'em  plain. 
There's    one    up    back,    down     Tuttock's 

drain, 

But,  Lord,  it's  just  a  bog,  the  Tuttocks, 
Hounds  would  be  swallered  to  the  buttocks. 
Heath  Wood,  Sir  Peter's  best  to  draw." 

Sir  Peter  gave  two  minutes'  law 

For  Kingston  Challow  and  his  daughter ; 

He  said.  "They're  late.  We'll  start  the 
slaughter. 

Ghost  Heath,  then,  Dansey.  We'll  be  go- 
ing." 

Now,  at  his  word,  the  tide  was  flowing 
Off  went  Maroon,  off  went  the  hounds, 
Down  road,  then  off,  to  Chols  Elm  Grounds, 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  65 

Across  soft  turf  with  dead  leaves  cleaving 
And  hillocks  that  the  mole  was  heaving, 
Mild  going  to  those  trotting  feet. 
After  the  scarlet  coats,  the  meet 
Came  clopping  up  the  grass  in  spate ; 
They  poached  the  trickle  at  the  gate ; 
Their  horses'  feet  sucked  at  the  mud ; 
Excitement  in  the  horses'  blood, 
Cocked  forward  every  ear  and  eye ; 

They  quivered  as  the  hounds  went  by, 

« 

They  trembled  when  they  first  trod  grass ; 
They  would  not  let  another  pass 
They  scattered  wide  up  Chols  Elm  Hill. 

The  wind  was  westerly  but  still ; 
The  sky  a  high  fair-weather  cloud, 
Like  meadows  ridge-and-furrow  ploughed, 
Just  glinting  sun  but  scarcely  moving. 
Blackbirds  and  thrushes  thought  of  loving, 
Catkins  were  out ;  the  day  seemed  tense 


66  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

It  was  so  still.    At  every  fence 
Cow-parsley  pushed  its  thin  green  fern. 
White-violet-leaves  shewed  at  the  burn. 

Young  Cothill  let  his  chaser  go 
Round  Chols  Elm  Field  a  turn  or  so 
To  soothe  his  edge.     The  riders  went 
Chatting  and  laughing  and  content 
In  groups  of  two  or  three  together. 
The  hounds,  a  flock  of  shaking  feather, 
Bobbed  on  ahead,  past  Chols  Elm  Cop. 
The  horses'  shoes  went  clip-a-clop, 
Along  the  stony  cart-track  there. 
The  little  spinney  was  all  bare, 
But  in  the  earth-moist  winter  day 
The  scarlet  coats  twixt  tree  and  spray, 
The  glistening  horses  pressing  on, 
The  brown  faced  lads,  Bill,  Dick  and  John, 
And  all  the  hurry  to  arrive, 
Were  beautiful  like  spring  alive. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  67 

The  hounds  melted  away  with  Master 
The  tanned  lads  ran,  the  field  rode  faster, 
The  chatter  joggled  in  the  throats 
Of  riders  bumping  by  like  boats, 
"We  really  ought  to  hunt  a  bye  day." 
"Fine  day  for  scent,"  "A  fly  or  die  day.'* 
"They  chopped  a  bagman  in  the  check, 
He  had  a  collar  round  his  neck." 
"Old  Ridden's  girl's  a  pretty  flapper." 
"That    Vaughan's    a    cad,    the    whipper- 
snapper." 

"I  tell  'ee,  lads,  I  seed  'em  plain, 
Down  in  the  Rough  at  Shifford's  Main, 
Old  Squire  stamping  like  a  Duke, 
So  red  with  blood  I  thought  he'd  puke, 
In  appleplexie,  as  they  do. 
Miss  Jane  stood  just  as  white  as  dew, 
And  heard  him  out  in  just  white  heat, 
And     then    she     trimmed     him     down     a 
treat, 


68  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

About  Miss  Lou  it  was,  or  Carrie 
(She'd  be  a  pretty  peach  to  marry)." 

"Her'll  draw  up-wind,  so  us'll  go 
Down  by  the  furze,  we'll  see  'em  so." 

"Look,  there  they  go,  lad." 

There  they  went, 
Across  the  brook  and  up  the  bent, 
Past  Primrose  Wood,  past  Brady  Ride, 
Along  Ghost  Heath  to  cover  side. 
The  bobbing  scarlet,  trotting  pack, 
Turf  scatters  tossed  behind  each  back, 
Some  horses  blowing  with  a  whinny, 
A  jam  of  horses  in  the  spinney, 
Close  to  the  ride-gate ;  leather  straining, 
Saddles  all  creaking ;  men  complaining, 
Chaffing  each  other  as  they  pass't, 
On  Ghost  Heath  turf  they  trotted  fast. 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  69 

Now  as  they  neared  the  Ghost  Heath  Wood, 
Some  riders  grumbled,  " What's  the  good: 
It's  shot  all  day  and  poached  all  night. 
We  shall  draw  blank  and  lose  the  light, 
And  lose  the  scent,  and  lose  the  day. 
Why  can't  he  draw  Hope  Goneaway, 
Or  Tuttocks  Wood,  instead  of  this? 
There's  no  fox  here,  there  never  is." 

But  as  he  trotted  up  to  cover, 

Robin  was  watching  to  discover 

What  chance  there  was,  and  many  a  token 

Told    him,     that    though    no   hound    had 

spoken, 

Most  of  them  stirred  to  something  there. 
The  old  hounds'  muzzles  searched  the  air, 
Thin  ghosts  of  scents  were  in  their  teeth, 
From  foxes  which  had  crossed  the  Heath 
Not  very  many  hours  before. 
"We'll  find,"  he  said,  "I'll  bet  a  score." 


70  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

Along  Ghost  Heath  they  trotted  well, 
The  hoof-cuts  made  the  bruised  earth  smell, 
The  shaken  brambles  scattered  drops, 
Stray  pheasants  kukkered  out  of  copse, 
Cracking  the  twigs  down  with  their  knockings 
And  planing  out  of  sight  with  cookings ; 
A  scut  or  two  lopped  white  to  bramble. 

And  now  they  gathered  to  the  gamble 

At  Ghost  Heath  Wood  on  Ghost  Heath  Down, 

The  hounds  went  crackling  through  the  brown 

Dry  stalks  of  bracken  killed  by  frost. 

The  wood  stood  silent  in  its  host 

Of  halted  trees  all  winter  bare. 

The  boughs,  like  veins  that  suck  the  air, 

Stretched    tense,     the    last    leaf    scarcely 

stirred. 

There  came  no  song  from  any  bird ; 
The  darkness  of  the  wood  stood  still 
Waiting  for  fate  on  Ghost  Heath  Hill. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  71 

The  whips  crept  to  the  sides  to  view  ; 
The  Master  gave  the  nod,  and  "Leu, 
Leu  in,  Ed-hoick,  Ed-hoick,  Leu  in," 
Went  Robin,  cracking  through  the  whin 
And  through  the  hedge-gap  into  cover. 
The  binders  crashed  as  hounds  went  over, 
And  cock-cock-cock  the  pheasants  rose. 
Then  up  went  stern  and  down  went  nose, 
And  Robin's  cheerful  tenor  cried,    % 
Through  hazel-scrub  and  stub  and  ride, 
"0  wind  him  beauties,  push  him  out, 
Yooi,  onto  him,  Yahout,  Yahout, 
O  push  him  out,  Yooi,  wind  him,  wind  him." 
The  beauties  burst  the  scrub  to  find  him, 
They  nosed  the  warren's  clipped  green  lawn, 
The  bramble  and  the  broom  were  drawn, 
The  covert's  northern  end  was  blank. 

They  turned  to  draw  along  the  bank 
Through  thicker  cover  than  the  Rough 


72  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

Through  three-and-four-year  understuff 
Where  Robin's  forearm  screened  his  eyes. 
"Yooi,  find  him,  beauties,"  came  his  cries. 
"Hark,  hark  to  Daffodil,"  the  laughter 
Fain  from  his  horn,  brought  whimpers  after, 
For  ends  of  scents  were  everywhere. 
He  said,  "This  Hope's  a  likely  lair. 
And  there's  his  billets,  grey  and  furred. 
And  George,  he's  moving,  there's  a  bird." 

A  blue  uneasy  jay  was  chacking. 

(A  swearing  screech,  like  tearing  sacking) 

From  tree  to  tree,  as  in  pursuit, 

He  said  "That's  it.    There's  fox  afoot. 

And    there,    they're   feathering,    there   she 

speaks. 

Good  Daffodil,  good  Tarrybreeks, 
Hark  there,  to  Daffodil,  hark,  hark. " 
The  mild  horn's  note,  the  soft  flaked  spark 
Of  music,  fell  on  that  rank  scent. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  73 

From  heart  to  wild  heart  magic  went. 

The  whimpering  quivered,  quavered,  rose. 

"Daffodil  has  it.    There  she  goes. 

O  hark  to  her."    With  wild  high  crying 

From  frantic  hearts,  the  hounds  went  flying 

To  Daffodil  for  that  rank  taint. 

A  waft  of  it  came  warm  but  faint, 

In  Robin's  mouth,  and  faded  so. 

"First  find  a  fox,  then  let  him  go," 

Cried  Robin  Dawe.     "For  any  sake. 

Ring,  Charley,  till  you're  fit  to  break." 

He  cheered  his  beauties  like  a  lover 

And  charged  beside  them  into  cover. 


PART  II 


On  old  Cold  Crendon's  windy  tops 
Grows  wintrily  Blown  Hilcote  Copse, 
Wind-bitten  beech  with  badger  barrows, 
Where   brocks   eat   wasp-grubs   with    their 

marrows, 

And  foxes  lie  on  short-grassed  turf, 
Nose  between  paws,  to  hear  the  surf  * 
Of  wind  in  the  beeches  drowsily. 
There  was  our  fox  bred  lustily 
Three  years  before,  and  there  he  berthed 
Under  the  beech-roots  snugly  earthed, 
With  a  roof  of  flint  and  a  floor  of  chalk 
And  ten  bitten  hens'  heads  each  on  its  stalk, 
Some  rabbits'  paws,  some  fur  from  scuts, 
A  badger's  corpse  and  a  smell  of  guts. 
And  there  on  the  night  before  my  tale 
He  trotted  out  for  a  point  in  the  vale. 
77 


78  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

He  saw,  from  the  cover  edge,  the  valley 
Go  trooping  down  with  its  droops  of  sally 
To  the  brimming  river's  lipping  bend, 
And  a  light  in  the  inn  at  Water's  End. 
He  heard  the  owl  go  hunting  by 
And  the  shriek  of  the  mouse  the  owl  made  die, 
And  the  purr  of  the  owl  as  he  tore  the  red 
Strings  from  between  his  claws  and  fed ; 
The  smack  of  joy  of  the  horny  lips 
Marbled  green  with  the  blobby  strips. 
He  saw  the  farms  where  the  dogs  were  bark- 
ing, 

Cold  Crendon  Court  and  Copsecote  Larking ; 
The  fault  with  the  spring  as  bright  as  gleed, 
Green-slash-laced  with  water  weed. 
A  glare  in  the  sky  still  marked  the  town, 
Though  all  folk  slept  and  the  blinds  were 

down, 

The  street  lamps  watched  the  empty  square, 
The  night-cat  sang  his  evil  there. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  79 

The  fox's  nose  tipped  up  and  round 
Since  smell  is  a  part  of  sight  and  sound. 
Delicate  smells  were  drifting  by, 
The  sharp  nose  flaired  them  needfully ; 
Partridges  in  the  clover  stubble, 
Crouched  in  a  ring  for  the  stoat  to  nubble. 
Rabbit  bucks  beginning  to  box  ; 

A  scratching  place  for  the  pheasant  cocks  ; 

A  hare  in  the  dead  grass  near  the  drain, 

* 
And  another  smell  like  the  spring  again. 

A  faint  rank  taint  like  April  coming, 
It  cocked  his  ears  and  his  blood  went  drum- 
ming, 

For  somewhere  out  by  Ghost  Heath  Stubs 
Was  a  roving  vixen  wanting  cubs. 
Over  the  valley,  floating  faint 
On  a  warmth  of  windflaw  came  the  taint, 
He  cocked  his  ears,  he  upped  his  brush, 
And  he  went  up  wind  like  an  April  thrush. 


80  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

By  the  Roman  Road  to  Braiches  Ridge 
Where  the  fallen  willow  makes  a  bridge, 
Over  the  brook  by  White  Hart's  Thorn, 
To  the  acres  thin  with  pricking  corn. 
Over  the  sparse  green  hair  of  the  wheat, 
By  the  Clench  Brook  Mill  at  Clench  Brook 

Leat, 
Through     Cowfoot     Pastures     to     Nonely 

Stevens, 

And  away  to  Poltrewood  St.  Jevons. 
Past  Tott  Hill  Down  all  snaked  with  meuses, 
Past  Clench  St.  Michael  and  Naunton  Crucis, 
Past  Howie's  Oak  Farm  where  the  raving 

brain 

Of  a  dog  who  heard  him  foamed  his  chain, 
Then  off,  as  the  farmer's  window  opened, 
Past  Stonepits  Farm  to  Upton  Hope  End ; 
Over  short  sweet  grass  and  worn  flint  arrows, 
And  the  three  dumb  hows  of  Tencombe  Bar- 
rows; 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  81 

And  away  and  away  with  a  rolling  scramble, 
Through  the  blackthorn  and  up  the  bramble, 
With  a  nose  for  the  smells  the  night  wind 

carried, 

And  his  red  fell  clean  for  being  married. 
For  clicketting  time  and  Ghost  Heath  Wood 
Had  put  the  violet  in  his  blood. 

At  Tencombe  Rings  near  the  Manor  Jjinney, 
His  foot  made  the  great  black  stallion  whinny, 
And  the  stallion's  whinny  aroused  the  stable 
And  the  bloodhound  bitches  stretched  their 

cable, 
And   the  clink  of    the  bloodhound's  chain 

aroused 
The  sweet-breathed  kye  as  they  chewed  and 

drowsed, 

And  the  stir  of  the  cattle  changed  the  dream 
Of  the  cat  in  the  loft  to  tense  green  gleam. 
The  red-wattled  black  cock  hot  from  Spain 


82  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

Crowed  from  his  perch  for  dawn  again, 
His  breast-pufft  hens,  one-legged  on  perch, 
Gurgled,  beak-down,  like  men  in  church, 
They  crooned  in  the  dark,  lifting  one  red  eye 
In  the  raftered  roost  as  the  fox  went  by. 

By  Tencombe  Regis  and  Slaughters  Court, 
Through  the  great  grass  square  of  Roman 

Fort, 

By  Nun's  Wood  Yews  and  the  Hungry  Hill, 
And  the  Corpse  Way  Stones  all  standing  still, 
By  Seven  Springs  Mead  to  Deerlip  Brook, 
And  a  lolloping  leap  to  Water  Hook. 
Then  with  eyes  like  sparks  and  his  blood 

awoken 

Over  the  grass  to  Water's  Oaken, 
And  over  the  hedge  and  into  ride 
In  Ghost  Heath  Wood  for  his  roving  bride. 

Before  the  dawn  he  had  loved  and  fed 
And  found  a  kennel  and  gone  to  bed 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  83 

On  a  shelf  of  grass  in  a  thick  of  gorse 
That  would  bleed  a  hound  and  blind  a  horse. 
There  he  slept  in  the  mild  west  weather 
With  his  nose  and  brush  well  tucked  together, 
He  slept  like  a  child,  who  sleeps  yet  hears 
With  the  self  who  needs  neither  eyes  nor 
ears. 

He  slept  while  the  pheasant  cock  untucked 

• 
His  head   from   his  wing,   flew  down  and 

kukked, 
While  the  drove  of  the  starlings  whirred  and 

wheeled 

Out  of  the  ash-trees  into  field. 
While  with  great  black  flags  that  flogged  and 

paddled 
The   rooks   went   out   to   the   plough   and 

straddled, 

Straddled  wide  on  the  moist  red  cheese, 
Of  the  furrows  driven  at  Uppat's  Leas. 


84  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

Down  in  the  village,  men  awoke, 

The  chimneys  breathed  with  a  faint  blue 

smoke, 

The  fox  slept  on,  though  tweaks  and  twitches 
Due  to  his  dreams,  ran  down  his  flitches. 

The  cows  were  milked  and  the  yards  were 

sluict, 

And  the  cocks  and  hens  let  out  of  roost, 
Windows  were  opened,  mats  were  beaten, 
All  men's  breakfasts  were  cooked  and  eaten, 
But  out  in  the  gorse  on  the  grassy  shelf, 

The  sleeping  fox  looked  after  himself. 

• 

Deep  in  his  dream  he  heard  the  life 
Of  the  woodland  seek  for  food  or  wife, 
The  hop  of  a  stoat,  a  buck  that  thumped, 
The  squeal  of  a  rat  as  a  weasel  jumped, 
The  blackbird's  chackering  scattering  crying, 
The  rustling  bents  from  the  rabbits  flying, 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  85 

Cows  in  a  byre,  and  distant  men, 

And  Condicote  church-clock  striking  ten. 

At  eleven  o'clock  a  boy  went  past, 
With  a  rough-haired  terrier  following  fast 
The  boy's  sweet  whistle  and  dog's  quick  yap 
Woke  the  fox  from  out  of  his  nap. 

He  rose  and  stretched  till  the  claws  in  his 

* 
pads 

Stuck  hornily  out  like  long  black  gads, 

He  listened  a  while,  and  his  nose  went  round 

To  catch  the  smell  of  the  distant  sound. 

The  windward  smells  came  free  from  taint 
They  were  rabbit,  strongly,  with  lime-kiln, 

faint, 

A  wild-duck,  likely,  at  Sars  Holt  Pond, 
And  sheep  on  the  Sars  Holt  Down  beyond. 
The  lee-ward  smells  were  much  less  certain 


86  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

For  the  Ghost  Heath  Hill  was  like  a  curtain, 
Yet  vague,  from  the  lee-ward,  now  and  then, 
Came  muffled  sounds  like  the  sound  of  men. 

He  moved  to  his  right  to  a  clearer  space, 
And  all  his  soul  came  into  his  face, 
Into  his  eyes  and  into  his  nose, 
As  over  the  hill  a  murmur  rose. 

His  ears  were   cocked  and   his  keen   nose 

flaired, 
He  sneered  with  his  lips  till  his  teeth  were 

bared, 

He  trotted  right  and  lifted  a  pad 

i 
Trying  to  test  what  foes  he  had. 

On  Ghost  Heath  turf  was  a  steady  drumming 
Which  sounded  like  horses  quickly  coming, 
It  died  as  the  hunt  went  down  the  dip, 
Then  Malapert  yelped  at  Myngs's  whip. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  87 

A  bright  iron  horseshoe  clinkt  on  stone, 

Then  a  man's  voice  spoke,  not  one  alone, 

Then  a  burst  of  laughter,  swiftly  still, 

Muffled  away  by  Ghost  Heath  Hill. 

Then,  indistinctly,  the  clop,  clip,  clep, 

On  Brady  Ride,  of  a  horse's  step. 

Then  silence,  then,  in  a  burst,  much  clearer, 

Voices  and  horses  coming  nearer, 

And  another  noise,  of  a  pit-pat  beat 

On  the  Ghost  Hill  grass,  of  foxhound  feet.  • 

He  sat  on  his  haunches  listening  hard, 
While   his   mind    went   over    the    compass 

card, 

Men  were  coming  and  rest  was  done, 
But  he  still  had  time  to  get  fit  to  run ; 
He  could  outlast  horse  and  outrace  hound, 
But  men  were  devils  from  Lobs's  Pound. 
Scent  was  burning,  the  going  good    . 
The  world  one  lust  for  a  fox's  blood, 


88  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

The  main  earths  stopped  and   the  drains 

put-to, 

And  fifteen  miles  to  the  land  he  knew. 
But  of  all  the  ills,  the  ill  least  pleasant 
Was  to  run  in  the  light  when  men  were  pres- 
ent. 

Men  in  the  fields  to  shout  and  sign 
For  a  lift  of  hounds  to  a  fox's  line. 
Men  at  the  earth  at  the  long  point's  end, 
Men  at  each  check  and  none  his  friend, 
Guessing  each  shift  that  a  fox  contrives, 
But  still,  needs  must  when  the  devil  drives. 

He  readied  himself,  then  a  soft  horn  blew, 
Then    a    clear    voice    carolled    "  Ed-hoick. 

Eleu." 
Then  the  wood-end  rang  with  the  clear  voice 

crying 
And  the  crackle  of  scrub  where  hounds  were 

trying. 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  89 

Then,  the  horn  blew  nearer,  a  hound's  voice 

quivered, 
Then    another,    then    more,    till    his    body 

shivered, 

He  left  his  kennel  and  trotted  thence 
With  his  ears  flexed  back  and  his  nerves  all 

tense. 

He  trotted  down  with  his  nose  intent 

* 
For  a  fox's  line  to  cross  his  scent, 

It  was  only  fair  (he  being  a  stranger) 
That  the  native  fox  should  have  the  danger. 
Danger  was  coming,  so  swift,  so  swift, 
That  the  pace  of  his  trot  began  to  lift 
The  blue-winged  Judas,  a  jay,  began 
Swearing,  hounds  whimpered,  air  stank  of 
man. 

He  hurried  his  trotting,  he  now  felt  frighted, 
It  was  his  poor  body  made  hounds  excited 


90  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

He  felt  as  he  ringed  the  great  wood  through 
That  he  ought  to  make  for  the  land  he  knew. 

Then  the  hounds'  excitement  quivered  and 

quickened, 
Then  a  horn  blew  death   till  his  marrow 

sickened, 

Then  the  wood  behind  was  a  crash  of  cry 
For  the  blood  in  his  veins ;  it  made  him  fly. 

They  were  on  his  line ;  it  was  death  to  stay 
He  must  make  for  home  by  the  shortest  way 
But  with  all  this  yelling  and  all  this  wrath 
And  all  these  devils,  how  find  a  path  ? 

He  ran  like  a  stag  to  the  wood's  north  corner, 
Where  the  hedge  was  thick  and  the  ditch  a 

yawner, 

But  the  scarlet  glimpse  of  Myngs  on  Turk, 
Watching  the  woodside,  made  him  shirk. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  91 

He  ringed  the  wood  and  looked  at  the  south. 
What  wind  there  was  blew  into  his  mouth. 
But    close    to    the    woodland's    blackthorn 

thicket 

Was  Dansey,  still  as  a  stone,  on  picket. 
At  Dansey's  back  were  a  twenty  more 
Watching  the  cover  and  pressing  fore. 

The  fox  drew  in  and  flaired  with  his  muzzle. 

f 

Death  was  there  if  he  messed  the  puzzle. 
There  were  men  without  and  hounds  within, 
A  crying  that  stiffened  the  hair  on  skin, 
Teeth  in  cover  and  death  without, 
Both  deaths  coming,  and  no  way  out. 

His  nose  ranged  swiftly,  his  heart  beat  fast, 
Then  a  crashing  cry  rose  up  in  a  blast, 
Then  horse  hooves  trampled,  then  horses' 

flitches 
Burst  their  way  through  the  hazel  switches 


92  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

Then  the  horn  again  made  the  hounds  like 

mad, 
And  a  man,  quite  near,  said  "Found,  by 

Gad," 
And  a  man,  quite  near,   said    "Now  he'll 

break. 

Lark's  Leybourne  Copse  is  the  line  he'll  take." 
And  the  men  moved  up  with  their  talk  and 

stink 

And  the  traplike  noise  of  the  horseshoe  clink. 
Men  whose  coming  meant  death  from  teeth 
In  a  worrying  wrench  with  him  beneath. 

The  fox  sneaked  down  by  the  cover  side, 
(With  his  ears  flexed  back)  as  a  snake  would 

glide, 

He  took  the  ditch  at  the  cover-end, 
He  hugged  the  ditch  as  his  only  friend. 
The  blackbird  cock  with  the  golden  beak 
Got  out  of  his  way  with  a  jabbering  shriek 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  93 

And  the  shriek  told  Tom  on  the  raking  bay 
That  for  eighteen  pence  he  was  gone  away. 

He  ran  in  the  hedge  in  the  triple  growth 
Of  bramble  and  hawthorn,  glad  of  both, 
Till  a  couple  of  fields  were  past,  and  then 
Came  the  living  death  of  the  dread  of  men. 

Then,  as  he  listened,  he  heard  a  "Hoy," 
Tom  Dansey's  horn  and  "Awa-wa-woy." 
Then  all  hounds  crying  with  all  then*  forces, 
Then  a  thundering  down  of  seventy  horses. 
Robin  Dawe's  horn  and  halloos  of  "Hey 
Hark  Hollar,  Hoik"  and  "Gone  away," 
"Hark  Hollar  Hoik,"  and  the  smack  of  a  whip 
A  yelp  as  a  tail  hound  caught  the  clip. 
"Hark  Hollar,  Hark  Hollar";   then  Robin 

made 

Pip  go  crash  through  the  cut-and-laid, 
Hounds  were  over  and  on  his  line 


94  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

With  a  head  like  bees  upon  Tipple  Tine. 
The  sound  of  the  nearness  sent  a  flood 
Of  terror  of  death  through  the  fox's  blood. 
He  upped  his  brush  and  he  cocked  his  nose, 
And  he  went  up  wind  as  a  racer  goes. 

Bold  Robin  Dawe  was  over  first, 

Cheering  his  hounds  on  at  the'burst ; 

The  field  were  spurring  to  be  in  it 

"Hold  hard,  sirs,  give  them  half  a  minute," 

Came  from  Sir  Peter  on  his  white. 

The  hounds  went  romping  with  delight 

Over  the  grass  and  got  together ; 

The  tail  hounds  galloped  hell-for-leather 

After  the  pack  at  Myngs's  yell ; 

A  cry  like  every  kind  of  bell 

Rang  from  these  rompers  as  they  raced. 

The  riders  thrusting  to  be  placed, 
Jammed  down  their  hats  and  shook  their 
horses, 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  95 

The    hounds    romped    past   with    all   their 

forces, 

They  crashed  into  the  blackthorn  fence ; 
The  scent  was  heavy  on  their  sense, 
So  hot  it  seemed  the  living  thing, 
It  made  the  blood  within  them  sing, 
Gusts  of  it  made  their  hackles  rise, 
Hot  gulps  of  it  were  agonies 

Of  joy,  and  thirst  for  blood,  and  passion. 

• 

"Forrard,"     cried      Robin,      "  that's      the 

fashion." 

He  raced  beside  his  pack  to  cheer. 
The  field's  noise  died  upon  his  ear, 
A  faint  horn,  far  behind,  blew  thin 
In  cover,  lest  some  hound  were  in. 
Then  instantly  the  great  grass  rise 
Shut  field  and  cover  from  his  eyes, 
He  and  his  racers  were  alone. 
"  A  dead  fox  or  a  broken  bone, " 
Said  Robin,  peering  for  his  prey. 


96  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

The  rise,  which  shut  his  field  away, 

Shewed  him   the  vale's   great   map  spread 

out, 

The  downs'  lean  flank  and  thrusting  snout, 
Pale  pastures,  red-brown  plough,  dark  wood, 
Blue  distance,  still  as  solitude, 
Glitter  of  water  here  and  there, 
The  trees  so  delicately  bare. 
The  dark  green  gorse  and  bright  green  holly. 
"O  glorious  God,"  he  said,  "how  jolly." 
And  there,  down  hill,  two  fields  ahead, 
The  lolloping  red  dog-fox  sped 
Over  Poor  Pastures  to  the  brook. 
He  grasped  these  things  in  one  swift  look 
Then  dived  into  the  bulfinch  heart 
Through  thorns  that  ripped  his  sleeves  apart 
And  skutched  new  blood  upon  his  brow. 
"His  point's  Lark's  Leybourne  Covers  now," 
Said  Robin,  landing  with  a  grunt, 
"Forrard,  my  beautifuls." 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  97 

The  hunt 

Followed  down  hill  to  race  with  him, 
White  Rabbit  with  his  swallow's  skim, 
Drew  within  hail,  "  Quick  burst,  Sir  Peter." 
"A  traveller.     Nothing  could  be  neater. 
Making  for  Godsdown  clumps  I  take  it?" 
"Lark's  Leybourne,  sir,  if  he  can  make  it. 
Forrard." 

» 
Bill  Ridden  thundered  down ; 

His  big  mouth  grinned  beneath  his  frown, 
The  hounds  were  going  away  from  horses. 
He  saw  the  glint  of  water-courses, 
Yell  Brook  and  Wittold's  Dyke  ahead, 
His  horse  shoes  sliced  the  green  turf  red. 
Young  Cothill's  chaser  rushed  and  passt  him, 
Nob  Manor,  running  next,  said  "  Blast  him, 
That  poet  chap  who  thinks  he  rides." 
Hugh  Colway's  mare  made  straking  strides 
Across  the  grass,  the  Colonel  next : 


98  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

Then  Squire  volleying  oaths  and  vext, 
Fighting  his  hunter  for  refusing : 
Bell  Ridden  like  a  cutter  cruising 
Sailing  the  grass,  then  Cob  on  Warder 
Then  Minton  Price  upon  Marauder ; 
Ock  Gurney  with  his  eyes  intense, 
Burning  as  with  a  different  sense, 
His  big  mouth  muttering  glad  "by  damns"  ; 
Then  Pete  crouched  down  from  head  to  hams, 
Rapt  like  a  saint,  bright  focussed  flame  • 
Bennett  with  devils  in  his  wame 
Chewing  black  cud  and  spitting  slanting ; 
Copse  scattering  jests  and  Stukely  ranting; 
Sal  Ridden  taking  line  from  Dansey ; 
Long  Robert  forcing  Necromancy ; 
A  dozen  more  with  bad  beginnings ; 
Myngs  riding  hard  to  snatch  an  innings, 
A  wild  last  hound  with  high  shrill  yelps, 
Smacked    forrard    with    some    whip-thong 
skelps. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  99 

Then  last  of  all,  at  top  of  rise, 

The  crowd  on  foot  all  gasps  and  eyes 

The  run  up  hill  had  winded  them. 

They  saw  the  Yell  Brook  like  a  gem 
Blue  in  the  grass  a  short  mile  on 
They  heard  faint  cries,  but  hounds  were  gone 
A  good  eight  fields  and  out  of  sight 
Except  a  rippled  glimmer  white 
Going  away  with  dying  cheering 
And  scarlet  flappings  disappearing, 
And  scattering  horses  going,  going, 
Going  like  mad,  White  Rabbit  snowing 
Far  on  ahead,  a  loose  horse  taking, 
Fence  after  fence  with  stirrups  shaking, 
And  scarlet  specks  and  dark  specks  dwindling. 

Nearer,  were  twigs  knocked  into  kindling, 
A  much  bashed  fence  still  dropping  stick, 
Flung  clods,  still  quivering  from  the  kick, 


100  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

Cut  hoof-marks  pale  in  cheesy  clay, 
The  horse-smell  blowing  clean  away. 
Birds  flitting  back  into  the  cover. 
One  last  faint  cry,  then  all  was  over. 
The  hunt  had  been,  and  found,  and  gone. 

At  Neakings  Farm,  three  furlongs  on, 

Hounds  raced  across  the  Waysmore  Road, 

Where  many  of  the  riders  slowed 

To  tittup  down  a  grassy  lane, 

Which  led  as  hounds  led  in  the  main 

And  gave  no  danger  of  a  fall. 

There,  as  they  tittupped  one  and  all, 

Big  Twenty  Stone  came  scattering  by, 

His  great  mare  made  the  hoof-casts  fly. 

" By  leave,"  he  cried.   "Come  on.   Come  up, 

This  fox  is  running  like  a  tup ; 

Let's  leave  this  lane  and  get  to  terms] 

No  sense  in  crawling  here  like  worms. 

Come  let  me  past  and  let  me  start, 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  101 

This  fox  is  running  like  a  hart, 

And  this  is  going  to  be  a  run. 

Come  on.    I  want  to  see  the  fun. 

Thanky.    By  leave.    Now,  Maiden ;  do  it." 

He  faced  the  fence  and  put  her  through  it 

Shielding  his  eyes  lest  spikes   should  blind 

him, 

The  crashing  blackthorn  closed  behind  him. 
Mud-scatters  chased  him  as  he  scudded. 
His  mare's  ears  cocked,  her  neat  feet  thudded. 

The  kestrel  cruising  over  meadow 
Watched  the  hunt  gallop  on  his  shadow, 
Wee  figures,  almost  at  a  stand, 
Crossing  the  multi-coloured  land, 
Slow  as  a  shadow  on  a  dial. 

Some  horses,  swerving  at  a  trial, 

Baulked  at  a  fence :  at  gates  they  bunched. 

The  mud  about  the  gates  was  dunched  t 


102  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

Like  German  cheese ;  men  pushed  for  places, 

And  kicked  the  mud  into  the  faces 

Of  those  who  made  them  room  to  pass. 

The  half-mile's  gallop  on  the  grass, 

Had   tailed   them   out,   and   warmed   their 

blood. 

"His  point's  the  Banner  Barton  Wood." 
"That,    or    Goat's    Gorse."        "A    stinger, 

this." 

"You're  right  in  that ;  by  Jove  it  is." 
"An  up- wind  travelling  fox,  by  George." 
"They  say  Tom  viewed  him  at  the  forge." 
"Well,  let  me  pass  and  let's  be  on." 

They  crossed  the  lane  to  Tolderton, 
The  hill-marl  died  to  valley  clay, 
And  there  before  them  ran  the  grey 
Yell  Water,  swirling  as  it  ran, 
The  Yell  Brook  of  the  hunting  man. 
The  hunters  eyed  it  and  were  grim. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  103 

They  saw  the  water  snaking  slim 
Ahead,  like  silver ;   they  could  see 
(Each  man)  his  pollard  willow  tree 
Firming  the  bank,  they  felt  their  horses 
Catch  the  gleam's  hint  and  gather  forces ; 
They  heard  the  men  behind  draw  near. 
Each  horse  was  trembling  as  a  spear 
Trembles  in  hand  when  tense  to  hurl, 

They  saw  the  brimmed  brook's  eddies  curl. 

ji 
The  willow-roots  like  water-snakes ; 

The  beaten  holes  the  ratten  makes, 
They  heard  the  water's  rush ;  they  heard 
Hugh  Colway's  mare  come  like  a  bird ; 
A  faint  cry  from  the  hounds  ahead, 
Then  saddle-strain,  the  bright  hooves'  tread, 
Quick  words,  the  splash  of  mud,  the  launch, 
The  sick  hope  that  the  bank  be  staunch, 
Then  Souse,  with  Souse  to  left  and  right. 
Maroon  across,  Sir  Peter's  white 
Down  but  pulled  up,  Tom  over,. Hugh 


104  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

Mud  to  the  hat  but  over,  too, 
Well  splashed  by  Squire  who  was  in. 

With  draggled  pink  stuck  close  to  skin, 
The  Squire  leaned  from  bank  and  hauled 
His  mired  horse's  rein ;  he  bawled 
For  help  from  each  man  racing  by. 
"What,  help  you  pull  him  out?    Not  I. 
What  made  you  pull  him  in  ?"   they  said. 
Nob  Manor  cleared  and  turned  his  head, 
And    cried    "Wade    up.     The    ford's    up- 
stream." 

Ock  Gurney  in  a  cloud  of  steam 
Stood  by  his  dripping  cob  and  wrung 
The  taste  of  brook  mud  from  his  tongue 
And  scraped  his  poor  cob's  pasterns  clean. 
"Lord,  what  a  crowner  we've  a  been, 
This  jumping  brook's  a  mucky  job." 
He  muttered,  grinning,  "Lord,  poor  cob. 
Now  sir,  let  me."    He  turned  to  Squire 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  105 

And  cleared  his  hunter  from  the  mire 
By  skill  and  sense  and  strength  of  arm. 

Meanwhile  the  fox  passed  Nonesuch  Farm, 

Keeping  the  spinney  on  his  right. 

Hounds    raced    him    here    with    all    their 

might 
Along  the  short  firm  grass,  like  fire. 

The  cowman  viewed  him  from  the  byre 

• 

Lolloping  on,  six  fields  ahead, 
Then  hounds,  still  carrying  such  a  head, 
It  made  him  stare,  then  Rob  on  Pip, 
Sailing  the  great  grass  like  a  ship, 
Then  grand  Maroon  in  all  his  glory 
Sweeping  his  strides,  his  great  chest  hoary 
With  foam  fleck  and  the  pale  hill-marl. 
They  strode  the  Leet,  they  flew  the  Snarl, 
They  knocked  the  nuts  at  Nonesuch  Mill, 
Raced  up  the  spur  of  Gallows  Hill 
And  viewed  him  there.    The  line  he  took 


106  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

Was  Tineton  and  the  Pantry  Brook, 
Going  like  fun  and  hounds  like  mad. 
Tom  glanced  to  see  what  friends  he  had 
Still  within  sight,  before  he  turned 
The  ridge's  shoulder ;  he  discerned, 
One  field  away,  young  Cothill  sailing 
Easily  up.     Pete  Gurney  failing, 
Hugh  Colway  quartering  on  Sir  Peter, 
Bill  waiting  on  the  mare  to  beat  her, 
Sal  Ridden  skirting  to  the  right. 
A  horse,  with  stirrups  flashing  bright 
Over  his  head  at  every  stride, 
Looked  like  the  Major's;  Tom  espied 
Far  back,  a  scarlet  speck  of  man 
Running,  and  straddling  as  he  ran. 
Charles   Copse   was   up,    Nob    Manor    fol- 
lowed, 

Then  Bennett's  big-boned  black  that  wal- 
lowed 
Clumsy,  but  with  the  strength  of  ten. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  107 

Then  black  and  brown  and  scarlet  men, 
Brown  horses,  white  and  black  and  grey 
Scattered  a  dozen  fields  away. 
The  shoulder  shut  the  scene  away. 


From    the   Gallows    Hill    to    the    Tineton 

Copse 
There  were  ten  ploughed  fields  like  ten  full 

stops, 

All  wet  red  clay  where  a  horse's  foot 
Would  be  swathed,  feet  thick,  like  an  ash-tree 

root. 

The  fox  raced  on,  on  the  headlands  firm, 
Where  his  swift  feet  scared   the   coupling 

worm, 

The  rooks  rose  raving  to  curse  him  raw 
He  snarled  a  sneer  at  their  swoop  and  caw. 
Then  on,  then  on,  down  a  half  ploughed  field 
Where    a    ship-like    plough    drave    glitter- 
keeled, 

With  a  bay  horse  near  and  a  white  horse 
leading, 

108 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  109 

And  a  man  saying  "Zook"  and  the  red  earth 

bleeding. 

He  gasped  as  he  saw  the  ploughman  drop 
The  stilts  and  swear  at  the  team  to  stop. 
The  ploughman  ran  in  his  red  clay  clogs 
Crying  "Zick  un  Towzer;   zick,  good  dogs." 
A  couple  of  wire-haired  lurchers  lean 
Arose  from  his  wallet,  nosing  keen ; 
With  a  rushing  swoop  they  were  on  his  track, 
Putting  chest  to  stubble  to  bite  his  back. 
He  swerved  from  his  line  with  the  curs  at 

heel, 
The  teeth  as  they  missed  him  clicked  like 

steel, 

With  a  worrying  snarl,  they  quartered  on  him, 
While  the  ploughman  shouted  "Zick;  upon 

him." 

The  lurcher  dogs  soon  shot  their  bolt, 
And  the  fox  raced  on  by  the  Hazel  Holt, 


110  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

Down  the  dead  grass  tilt  to  the  sandstone 

gash 

Of  the  Pantry  Brook  at  Tineton  Ash. 
The  loitering  water,  flooded  full, 
Had  yeast  on  its  lip  like  raddled  wool, 
It  was  wrinkled  over  with  Arab  script 
Of  eddies  that  twisted  up  and  slipt. 
The  stepping  stones  had  a  rush  about  them 
So  the  fox  plunged  in  and  swam  without  them. 

He  crossed  to  the  cattle's  drinking  shallow 
Firmed  up  with  rush  and  the  roots  of  mallow, 
He  wrung  his  coat  from  his  draggled  bones 
And  romped  away  for  the  Sarsen  Stones. 

A  sneaking  glance  with  his  ears  flexed  back, 
Made  sure  that  his  scent  had  failed  the  pack, 
For  the  red  clay,  good  for  corn  and  roses, 
Was  cold  for  scent  and  brought  hounds  to 
noses. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  111 

He  slackened  pace  by  the  Tineton  Tree, 
(A  vast  hollow  ash- tree  grown  in  three), 
He  wriggled  a  shake  and  padded  slow, 
Not  sure  if  the  hounds  were  on  or  no. 

A  horn  blew  faint,  then  he  heard  the  sounds 
Of  a  cantering  huntsman,  lifting  hounds, 
The  ploughman  had  raised  his  hat  for  sign, 
And  the  hounds  were  lifted  and  on  his  line. 
He  heard  the  splash  in  the  Pantry  Brook, 
And  a  man's  voice:    "Thiccy's  the  line  he 

took," 
And  a  clear  "Yoi  doit"  and  a  whimpering 

quaver, 
Though   the   lurcher   dogs   had   dulled   the 

savour. 

The  fox  went  off  while  the  hounds  made  halt, 
And  the  horses  breathed  and  the  field  found 

fault, 
But  the  whimpering  rose  to  a  crying  crash 


112  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

By  the  hollow  ruin  of  Tineton  Ash. 
Then  again  the  kettle  drum  horse  hooves  beat, 
And  the  green  blades  bent  to  the  fox's  feet 
And  the  cry  rose  keen  not  far  behind 
Of  the  "Blood,  blood,  blood"  in  the  fox- 
hounds' mind. 

The  fox  was  strong,  he  was  full  of  running, 
He  could  run  for  an  hour  and  then  be  cunning, 
But  the  cry  behind  him  made  him  chill, 
They  were  nearer  now  and  they  meant  to  kill. 
They  meant  to  run  him  until  his  blood 
Clogged  on  his  heart  as  his  brush  with  mud, 
Till  his  back  bent  up  and  his  tongue  hung 

flagging, 
And  his  belly  and  brush  were  filthed  from 

dragging. 
Till  he  crouched  stone  still,  dead-beat  and 

dirty, 
With  nothing  but  teeth  against  the  thirty. 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  113 

And  all  the  way  to  that  blinding  end 

He  would  meet  with  men  and  have  none  his 

friend. 

Men  to  holloa  and  men  to  run  him, 
With  stones   to  stagger  and  yells   to  stun 

him, 

Men  to  head  him,  with  whips  to  beat  him, 
Teeth  to  mangle  and  mouths  to  eat  him. 
And  all  the  way,  that  wild  high  crying, 
To  cold  his  blood  with  the  thought  of  dying, 
The  horn  and  the  cheer,  and  the  drum-like 

thunder, 
Of  the  horse  hooves  stamping  the  meadows 

under. 

He  upped  his  brush  and  went  with  a  will 
For  the  Sarsen  Stones  on  Wan  Dyke  Hill. 

As  he  ran  the  meadow  by  Tineton  Church, 
A  christening  party  left  the  porch, 
They  stood  stock  still  as  he  pounded  by, 


114  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

They  wished  him  luck  but  they  thought  he'd 

die. 

The  toothless  babe  in  his  long  white  coat 
Looked  delicate  meat,  the  fox  took  note ; 
But  the  sight  of  them  grinning  there,  pointing 

finger, 
Made  him  put  on  steam  till  he  went  a  stinger. 

Past  Tineton  Church  over  Tineton  Waste, 
With  the  lolloping  ease  of  a  fox's  haste, 
The  fur  on  his  chest  blown  dry  with  the  air, 
His  brush  still  up  and  his  cheek-teeth  bare. 
Over  the  Waste  where  the  ganders  grazed, 
The  long  swift  lilt  of  his  loping  lazed, 
His  ears  cocked  up  as  his  blood  ran  higher, 
He  saw  his  point,  and  his  eyes  took  fire. 
The  Wan  Dyke  Hill  with  its  fir  tree  barren, 
Its  dark  of  gorse  and  its  rabbit  warren. 
The   Dyke   on  its   heave  like  a  tightened 
girth, 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  115 

And  holes  in  the  Dyke  where  a  fox  might 

earth. 

He  had  rabbitted  there  long  months  before, 
The  earths  were  deep  and  his  need  was  sore, 
The  way  was  new,  but  he  took  a  bearing, 
And  rushed  like  a  blown  ship  billow-sharing. 

Off  Tineton  Common  to  Tineton  Dean, 
Where  the  wind-hid  elders  pushed  with  green : 
Through  the  Dean's  thin  cover  across  the 

lane, 

And  up  Midwinter  to  King  of  Spain. 
Old  Joe  at  digging  his  garden  grounds, 
Said  "  A  fox,  being  hunted ;  where  be  hounds  ? 
O  lord,  my  back,  to  be  young  again, 
'Stead  a  zellin  zider  in  King  of  Spain. 
0  hark,  I  hear  'em,  O  sweet,  0  sweet. 
Why  there  be  redcoat  in  Gearge's  wheat. 
And  there  be  redcoat,  and  there  they  gallop. 
Thur  go  a  browncoat  down  a  wallop. 


116  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

Quick,  Ellen,  quick,  come  Susan,  fly. 
Here'm  hounds.     I  zeed  the  fox  go  by, 
Go  by  like  thunder,  go  by  like  blasting, 
With  his  girt  white  teeth  all  looking  ghasting. 
Look  there  come  hounds.     Hark,  hear  'em 

crying, 

Lord,  belly  to  stubble,  ain't  they  flying. 
There's   huntsmen,    there.    The   fox    come 

past, 

(As  I  was  digging)  as  fast  as  fast. 
He's  only  been  gone  a  minute  by ; 
A  girt  dark  dog  as  pert  as  pye." 

Ellen  and  Susan  came  out  scattering 
Brooms  and  dustpans  till  all  was  clattering ; 
They  saw  the  pack  come  head  to  foot 
Running  like  racers  nearly  mute ; 
Robin  and  Dansey  quartering  near, 
All  going  gallop  like  startled  deer. 
A  half  dozen  flitting  scarlets  shewing 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  117 

In  the  thin  green  Dean  where  the  pines  were 

growing. 
Black  coats  and  brown  coats  thrusting  and 

spurring 

Sending  the  partridge  coveys  whirring, 
Then  a  rattle  up  hill  and  a  clop  up  lane, 
It  emptied  the  bar  of  the  King  of  Spain. 

Tom  left  his  cider,  Dick  left  his  bitter, 
Granfer  James  left  his  pipe  and  spitter, 
Out  they  came  from  the  sawdust  floor, 
They  said,  "They'm  going."    They  said  "0 
Lor." 

The  fox  raced  on,  up  the  Barton  Balks, 
With  a  crackle  of  kex  in  the  nettle  stalks, 
Over  Hammond's  grass  to  the  dark  green  line 
Of  the  larch-wood  smelling  of  turpentine. 
Scratch  Steven  Larches,  black  to  the  sky, 
A  sadness  breathing  with  one  long  sigh, 


118  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

Grey  ghosts  of  trees  under  funeral  plumes, 

A  mist  of  twig  over  soft  brown  glooms. 

As  he  entered  the  wood  he  heard  the  smacks, 

Chip-jar,  of  the  fir  pole  feller's  axe, 

He  swerved  to  the  left  to  a  broad  green  ride, 

Where  a  boy  made  him  rush  for  the  further 

side. 

He  swerved  to  the  left,  to  the  Barton  Road, 
But  there  were  the  timberers  come  to  load. 
Two  timber  carts  and  a  couple  of  carters 
With  straps  round  their  knees   instead^of 

garters. 
He  swerved  to  the  right,  straight  down  the 

wood, 

The  carters  watched  him,  the  boy  hallooed. 
He  leaped  from  the  larch  wood  into  tillage, 
The  cobbler's  garden  of  Barton  village. 

The  cobbler  bent  at  his  wooden  foot, 
Beating  sprigs  in  a  broken  boot ; 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  119 

He  wore  old  glasses  with  thick  horn  rim, 
He  scowled  at  his  work  for  his  sight  was 

dim. 

His  face  was  dingy,  his  lips  were  grey, 
From  primming  sparrowbills  day  by  day ; 
As  he  turned  his  boot  he  heard  a  noise 
At  his  garden-end   and  he    thought,   "It's 

boys." 

He  saw  his  cat  nip  up  on  the  shed, 

Where  her  back  arched  up  till  it  touched  her 

head, 

He  saw  his  rabbit  race  round  and  round 
Its  little  black  box  three  feet  from  ground. 
His  six  hens  cluckered  and  flucked  to  perch, 
"That's   boys,"    said   cobbler,    "so   I'll   go 

search." 
He  reached   his   stick   and   blinked   in  his 

wrath, 
When  he  saw  a  fox  in  his  garden  path. 


120  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

The  fox  swerved  left  and  scrambled  out 
Knocking    crinked    green    shells    from    the 

Brussels  Sprout, 
He   scrambled    out    through    the    cobbler's 

paling, 

And  up  Pill's  orchard  to  Purton's  Tailing, 
Across  the  plough  at  the  top  of  bent, 
Through  the  heaped  manure  to  kill  his  scent, 
Over  to  Aldams,  up  to  Cappells, 
Past   Nursery   Lot   with   its   white-washed 

apples, 
Past   Colston's  Broom,   past   Gaunts,    past 

Sheres, 

Past  Foxwhelps  Oasts  with  their  hooded  ears, 
Past  Monk's  Ash  Clerewell,   past   Beggars 

Oak, 
Past  the  great  elms  blue  with  the  Hinton 

smoke, 

Along  Long  Hinton  to  Hinton  Green, 
Where  the  wind-washed  steeple  stood  serene 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  121 

With  its  golden  bird  still  sailing  air, 
Past  Banner  Barton,  past  Chipping  Bare, 
Past  Maddings  Hollow,  down  Dundry  Dip, 
And  up  Goose  Grass  to  the  Sailing  Ship. 

The  three  black  firs  of  the  Ship  stood  still 
On  the  bare  chalk  heave  of  the  Dundry  Hill, 
The  fox  looked  back  as  he  slackened  past 
The  scaled  red-bole  of  the  mizzen-mast. 

There  they  were  coming,  mute  but  swift, 
A  scarlet  smear  in  the  blackthorn  rift, 
A  white  horse  rising,  a  dark  horse  flying, 
And  the  hungry  hounds  too  tense  for  crying. 
Stormcock  leading,  his  stern  spear-straight, 
Racing  as  though  for  a  piece  of  plate, 
Little  speck  horsemen  field  on  field ; 
Then  Dansey  viewed  him  and  Robin  squealed. 

At  the  View  Halloo  the  hounds  went  frantic, 
Back  went  Stormcock  and  up  went  Antic, 


122  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

Up  went  Skylark  as  Antic  sped 
It  was  zest  to  blood  how  they  carried  head. 
Skylark  drooped  as  Maroon  drew  by, 
Their  hackles  lifted,  they  scored  to  cry. 

The  fox  knew  well,  that  before  they  tore 
him, 

They  should  try  their  speed  on  the  downs  be- 
fore him, 

There  were  three  more  miles  to  the  Wan 
Dyke  Hill, 

But  his  heart  was  high,  that  he  beat  them  still. 

The  wind  of  the  downland  charmed  his  bones 

So  off  he  went  for  the  Sarsen  Stones. 

The  moan  of  the  three  great  firs  in  the  wind, 
And  the  Ai  of  the  foxhounds  died  behind, 
Wind-dapples  followed  the  hill-wind's  breath 
On  the  Kill  Down  gorge  where  the  Danes 
found  death ; 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  123 

Larks  scattered  up ;   the  peewits  feeding 

Rose  in  a  flock  from  the  Kill  Down  Steeding. 

The  hare  leaped  up  from  her  form  and 
swerved 

Swift  left  for  the  Starveall  harebell-turved. 

On  the  wind-bare  thorn  some  longtails  prink- 
ing 

Cried  sweet,  as  though  wind  blown  glass  were 
chinking. 

Behind  came  thudding  and  loud  halloo 

Or  a  cry  from  hounds  as  they  came  to  view. 

The  pure  clean  air  came  sweet  to  his  lungs, 
Till  he  thought  foul  scorn  of  those  crying 

tongues, 

In  a  three  mile  more  he  would  reach  the  haven 
In  the  Wan  Dyke  croaked  on  by  the  raven, 
In  a  three  mile  more  he  would  make  his  berth 
On  the  hard  cool  floor  of  a  Wan  Dyke  earth, 
Too  deep  for  spade,  too  curved  for  terrier, 


124  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

With  the  pride  of  the  race  to  make  rest  the 

merrier. 
In  a  three  mile  more  he  would  reach  his 

dream, 
So  his  game  heart  gulped  and  he  put  on  steam. 

Like  a  rocket  shot  to  a  ship  ashore, 

The  lean  red  bolt  of  his  body  tore, 

Like   a   ripple   of    wind    running   swift   on 

grass, 
Like  a  shadow  on  wheat  when  a  cloud  blows 

past, 

Like  a  turn  at  the  buoy  in  a  cutter  sailing, 
When  the  bright  green  gleam  lips  white  at 

the  railing, 

Like  the  April  snake  whipping  back  to  sheath, 
Like  the  gannet's  hurtle  on  fish  beneath, 
Like  a  kestrel  chasing,  like  a  sickle  reaping, 
Like   all    things   swooping,    like   all   things 

sweeping, 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  125 

Like  a  hound  for  stay,  like  a  stag  for  swift, 
With  his  shadow  beside  like  spinning  drift. 

Past  the  gibbet-stock  all  stuck  with  nails, 
Where  they  hanged  in  chains  what  had  hung 

at  jails, 

Past  Ashmundshowe  where  Ashmund  sleeps, 
And  none  but  the  tumbling  peewit  weeps, 
Past  Curlew  Calling,  the  gaunt  grey  corner 
Where    the    curlew   comes    as    a    summer 

mourner, 

Past  Blowbury  Beacon  shaking  his  fleece, 
Where   all   winds   hurry   and   none   brings 

peace, 

Then  down,  on  the  mile-long  green  decline 
Where  the  turf's  like  spring  and  the  air's  like 

wine, 
Where  the  sweeping  spurs  of  the  downland 

spill 
Into  Wan  Brook  Valley  and  Wan  Dyke  Hill. 


126  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

On  he  went  with  a  galloping  rally 
Past  Maesbury  Clump  for  Wan  Brook  Valley, 
The  blood  in  his  veins  went  romping  high 
"Get  on,  on,  on  to  the  earth  or  die." 
The  air  of  the  downs  went  purely  past, 
Till  he  felt  the  glory  of  going  fast, 
Till  the  terror  of  death,  though  there  indeed, 
Was  lulled  for  a  while  by  his  pride  of  speed ; 
He  was  romping  away  from  hounds  and  hunt, 
He  had  Wan  Dyke  Hill  and  his  earth  in  front, 
In  a  one  mile  more  when  his  point  was  made, 
He  would  rest  in  safety  from  dog  or  spade ; 
Nose  between  paws  he  would  hear  the  shout 
Of  the  "gone  to  earth  "  to  the  hounds  without, 
The  whine  of  the  hounds,  and  their  cat  feet 

gadding, 

Scratching  the  earth,  and  their  breath  pad- 
padding, 

He  would  hear  the  horn  call  hounds  away, 
And  rest  in  peace  till  another  day. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  127 

In  one  mile  more  he  would  lie  at  rest 
So  for  one  mile  more  he  would  go  his  best. 
He  reached  the  dip  at  the  long  droop's  end 
And  he  took  what  speed  he  had  still  to  spend. 

So  down  past  Maesbury  beech  clump  grey, 
That  would  not  be  green  till  the  end  of 

May, 

Past  Arthur's  Table,  the  white  chalk  boulder, 
Where  pasque  flowers  purple  the  down's  grey 

shoulder 

Past  Quichelm's  Keeping,  past  Harry's  Thorn 
To  Thirty  Acre  all  thin  with  corn. 
As  he  raced  the  corn  towards  Wan  Dyke 

Brook, 

The  pack  had  view  of  the  way  he  took, 
Robin  hallooed  from  the  downland's  crest, 
He  capped  them  on  till  they  did  their  best. 
The  quarter  mile  to  the  Wan  Brook's  brink 
Was  raced  as  quick  as  a  man  can  think. 


128  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

And  here,  as  he  ran  to  the  huntsman's  yell- 
ing, 

The  fox  first  felt  that  the  pace  was  telling, 
His  body  and  lungs  seemed  all  grown  old, 
His  legs  less  certain,  his  heart  less  bold, 
The  hound-noise  nearer,  the  hill  slope  steeper, 
The  thud  in  the  blood  of  his  body  deeper, 
His  pride  in  his  speed,  his  joy  in  the  race 
Were    withered    away,    for    what    use    was 

pace? 
He  had  run  his  best,  and  the  hounds  ran 

better. 
Then   the  going  worsened,   the  earth   was 

wetter. 
Then  his  brush  drooped  down  till  it  sometimes 

dragged, 

And  his  fur  felt  sick  and  his  chest  was  tagged 
With  taggles  of  mud,  and  his  pads  seemed 

lead, 
It  was  well  for  him  he'd  an  earth  ahead. 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  129 

Down  he  went  to  the  brook  and  over, 
Out  of  the  corn  and  into  the  clover, 
Over  the  slope  that  the  Wan  Brook  drains, 
Past  Battle  Tump  where  they  earthed  the 

Danes, 

Then  up  the  hill  that  the  Wan  Dyke  rings 
Where  the  Sarsen  Stones  stand  grand  like 

kings. 

Seven  Sarsens  of  granite  grim, 
As  he  ran  them  by  they  looked  at  him ; 
As  he  leaped  the  lip  of  their  earthen  paling 
The  hounds  were  gaining  and  he  was  failing. 

He  passed  the  Sarsens,  he  left  the  spur, 

He  pressed  up  hill  to  the  blasted  fir, 

He   slipped   as   he   leaped   the   hedge;     he 

slithered ; 
"He's  mine,"  thought  Robin.   "He's  done; 

he's  dithered." 


130  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

At  the  second  attempt  he  cleared  the  fence, 
He  turned  half  right  where  the  gorse  was 

dense, 

He  was  leading  hounds  by  a  furlong  clear. 
He  was  past  his  best,  but  his  earth  was  near. 
He  ran  up  gorse,  to  the  spring  of  the  ramp, 
The  steep  green  wall  of  the  dead  men's  camp, 
He  sidled  up  it  and  scampered  down 
To  the  deep  green  ditch  of  the  dead  men's 

town. 

Within,  as  he  reached  that  soft  green  turf, 

The  wind,  blowing  lonely,  moaned  like  surf, 

Desolate  ramparts  rose  up  steep, 

On  either  side,  for  the  ghosts  to  keep. 

He  raced  the  trench,  past  the  rabbit  warren, 

Close  grown  with  moss  which  the  wind  made 

barren, 

He  passed  the  spring  where  the  rushes  spread, 
And  there  in  the  stones  was  his  earth  ahead. 


REYNARD   THE  FOX  131 

One  last  short  burst  upon  failing  feet, 
There  life  lay  waiting,  so  sweet,  so  sweet, 
Rest  in  a  darkness,  balm  for  aches. 

The  earth  was  stopped.     It  was  barred  with 
stakes. 

With  the  hounds  at  head  so  close  behind 
He  had  to  run  as  he  changed  his  mind. 
This  earth,  as  he  saw,  was  stopped,  but  still 
There  was  one  earth  more  on  the  Wan  Dyke 

Hill. 

A  rabbit  burrow  a  furlong  on, 
He  could  kennel  there  till  the  hounds  were 

gone. 
Though  his  death  seemed  near  he  did  not 

blench 
He  upped  his  brush  and  he  ran  the  trench. 

He  ran  the  trench  while  the  wind  moaned 
treble, 


132  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

Earth    trickled   down,    there   were   falls   of 

pebble. 

Down  in  the  valley  of  that  dark  gash 
The  wind-withered  grasses  looked  like  ash. 
Trickles  of  stones  and  earth  fell  down 
In  that  dark  valley  of  dead  men's  town. 
A  hawk  arose  from  a  fluff  of  feathers, 
From  a  distant  fold  came  a  bleat  of  wethers. 
He  heard  no  noise  from  the  hounds  behind 
But  the  hill-wind  moaning  like  something 

blind. 

He  turned  the  bend  in  the  hill  and  there 
Was  his  rabbit-hole  with  its  mouth  worn  bare, 
But  there  with  a  gun  tucked  under  his  arm 
Was  young  Sid  Kissop  of  Purlpits  Farm, 
With  a  white  hob  ferret  to  drive  the  rabbit 
Into  a  net  which  was  set  to  nab  it. 
And  young  Jack  Cole  peered  over  the  wall 
And  loosed  a  pup  with  a  "Z'bite  en,  Saul," 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  133 

The  terrier  pup  attacked  with  a  will, 

So  the  fox  swerved  right  and  away  down  hill. 

Down  from  the  ramp  of  the  Dyke  he  ran 
To  the  brackeny  patch  where  the  gorse  began, 
Into  the  gorse,  where  the  hill's  heave  hid 
The  line  he  took  from  the  eyes  of  Sid 
He  swerved  down  wind  and  ran  like  a  hare 
For  the  wind-blown  spinney  below  him  there. 

He  slipped  from  the  gorse  to  the  spinney  dark 
(There  were  curled  grey  growths  on  the  oak 

tree  bark) 

He  saw  no  more  of  the  terrier  pup. 
But  he  heard  men  speak  and  the  hounds 

come  up. 

He  crossed  the  spinney  with  ears  intent 
For  the  cry  of  hounds  on  the  way  he  went 
His  heart  was  thumping,  the  hounds  were 
near  now 


134  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

He  could  make  no  sprint  at  a  cry  and  cheer 

now, 
He  was  past  his  perfect,  his  strength  was 

failing, 
His   brush    sag-sagged    and   his   legs    were 

ailing. 

He  felt  as  he  skirted  Dead  Men's  Town, 
That  in  one  mile  more  they  would  have  him 

down. 

Through  the  withered  oak's  wind-crouching 

tops 

He  saw  men's  scarlet  above  the  copse, 
He  heard  men's  oaths,  yet  he  felt  hounds 

slacken 

In  the  frondless  stalks  of  the  brittle  bracken. 
He  felt  that  the  unseen  link  which  bound 
His  spine  to  the  nose  of  the  leading  hound, 
Was  snapped,  that  the  hounds  no  longer  knew 
Which  way  to  follow  nor  what  to  do ; 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  135 

That  the  threat  of  the  hound's  teeth  left  his 

neck, 
They  had  ceased  to  run,  they  had  come  to 

check, 
They  were  quartering  wide  on  the  Wan  Hill's 

bent. 

The  terrier's  chase  had  killed  his  scent. 

He  heard  bits  chink  as  the  horses  shifted, 
He  heard  hounds  cast,  then  he  heard  hounds 

lifted, 

But  there  came  no  cry  from  a  new  attack, 
His  heart  grew  steady,  his  breath  came  back. 

He  left  the  spinney  and  ran  its  edge, 

By  the  deep  dry  ditch  of  the  blackthorn 

hedge, 

Then  out  of  the  ditch  and  down  the  meadow, 
Trotting  at  ease  in  the  blackthorn  shadow 


136  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

Over  the  track  called  Godsdown  Road, 
To  the  great  grass  heave  of  the  gods'  abode, 
He  was  moving  now  upon  land  he  knew 
Up  Clench  Royal  and  Morton  Tew 
The  Pol  Brook,  Cheddesdon  and  East  Stoke 

Church, 
High    Clench   St.   Lawrence   and   Tinker's 

Birch, 

Land  he  had  roved  on  night  by  night, 
For  hot  blood  suckage  or  furry  bite, 
The  threat  of  the  hounds  behind  was  gone ; 
He  breathed  deep  pleasure  and  trotted  on. 


While  young  Sid  Kissop  thrashed  the  pup, 
Robin  on  Pip  came  heaving  up, 
And  found  his  pack  spread  out  at  check. 
"I'd  like  to  wring  your  terrier's  neck," 
He  said,  "You  see?    He's  spoiled  our  sport. 
He's  killed  the  scent."     He  broke  off  short, 
And  stared  at  hounds  and  at  the  valley. 
No  jay  or  magpie  gave  a  rally 
Down  in  the  copse,  no  circling  rooks 
Rose  over  fields ;   old  JoyfuPs  looks 
Were  doubtful  in  the  gorse,  the  pack 
Quested  both  up  and  down  and  back. 
He  watched  each  hound  for  each  small  sign. 
They  tried,  but  could  not  hit  the  line, 
The  scent  was  gone.    The  field  took  place 
Out  of  the  way  of  hounds.    The  pace 
Had  tailed  them  out ;  though  four  remained : 
137 


138  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

Sir  Peter,  on  White  Rabbit  stained 
Red  from  the  brooks,  Bill  Ridden  cheery, 
Hugh  Colway  with  his  mare  dead  weary. 
The  Colonel  with  Marauder  beat. 
They  turned  towards  a  thud  of  feet ; 
Dansey,  and  then  young  Cothill  came 
(His  chestnut  mare  was  galloped  tame). 
"There's  Copse,  a  field  behind,"  he  said. 
"Those  last  miles  put  them  all  to  bed. 
They're  strung  along  the  downs  like  flies." 
Copse  and  Nob  Manor  topped  the  rise. 
"Thank  God,  a  check,"  they  said,  "at  last." 

"They  cannot  own  it;  you  must  cast," 
Sir  Peter  said.     The  soft  horn  blew 
Tom  turned  the  hounds  up  wind ;   they  drew 
Up  wind,  down  hill,  by  spinney  side. 
They  tried  the  brambled  ditch ;  they  tried 
The  swamp,  all  choked  with  bright  green  grass 
And  clumps  of  rush  and  pools  like  glass, 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  139 

Long  since,  the  dead  men's  drinking  pond. 
They  tried  the  White  Leaved  Oak  beyond, 
But  no  hound  spoke  to  it  or  feathered. 
The  horse  heads  drooped  like  horses  tethered, 
The  men  mopped  brows.     "An  hour's  hard 

run. 

Ten  miles,"  they  said,  "we  must  have  done. 
It's  all  of  six  from  Colston's  Gorses." 
The  lucky  got  their  second  horses. 

The    time    ticked    by.     "He's    lost,"    they 

muttered. 

A  pheasant  rose.    A  rabbit  scuttered. 
Men  mopped  their  scarlet  cheeks  and  drank. 

They  drew  down  wind  along  the  bank, 
(The  Wan  Way)  on  the  hill's  south  spur, 
Grown  with  dwarf  oak  and  juniper 
Like  dwarves  alive,  but  no  hound  spoke. 
The  seepings  made  the  ground  one  soak. 


140  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

They  turned  the  spur ;  the  hounds  were  beat. 
Then  Robin  shifted  in  his  seat 
Watching  for  signs,  but  no  signs  shewed. 
"I'll  lift  across  the  Godsdown  Road, 
Beyond  the  spinney,"  Robin  said. 
Tom  turned  them ;  Robin  went  ahead. 

Beyond  the  copse  a  great  grass  fallow 
Stretched  towards  Stoke  and  Cheddesdon 

Mallow, 

A  rolling  grass  where  hounds  grew  keen. 
"  Yoi  doit,  then ;  this  is  where  he's  been," 
Said  Robin,  eager  at  their  joy. 
"Yooi,  Joyful,  lad,  yooi,  Cornerboy. 
They're  on  to  him." 

At  his  reminders 

The  keen  hounds  hurried  to  the  finders. 
The  finding  hounds  began  to  hurry, 
Men  jammed  their  hats  prepared  to  skurry, 
The  Ai  Ai  of  the  cry  began. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  141 

Its  spirit  passed  to  horse  and  man, 
The  skirting  hounds  romped  to  the  cry. 
Hound  after  hound  cried  Ai  Ai  Ai, 
Till  all  were  crying,  running,  closing, 
Their  heads  well  up  and  no  heads  nosing, 
Joyful  ahead  with  spear-straight  stern. 
They  raced  the  great  slope  to  the  burn. 
Robin  beside  them,  Tom  behind, 
Pointing  past  Robin  down  the  wind. 

For  there,  two  furlongs  on,  he  viewed 
On  Holy  Hill  or  Cheddesdon  Rood 
Just  where  the  ploughland  joined  the  grass, 
A  speck  down  the  first  furrow  pass, 
A  speck  the  colour  of  the  plough. 
"Yonder  he  goes.    We'll  have  him  now," 
He  cried.    The  speck  passed  slowly  on, 
It  reached  the  ditch,  paused,  and  was  gone. 

Then  down  the  slope  and  up  the  Rood, 
Went  the  hunt's  gallop.     Godsdown  Wood 


142  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

Dropped  its  last  oak-leaves  at  the  rally. 

Over  the  Rood  to  High  Clench  Valley 

The  gallop  led ;  the  red-coats  scattered, 

The  fragments  of  the  hunt  were  tattered 

Over  five  fields,  ev'n  since  the  check. 

"A  dead  fox  or  a  broken  neck," 

Said  Robin  Dawe,  "Come  up,  the  Dane." 

The  hunter  leant  against  the  rein, 

Cocking  his  ears,  he  loved  to  see 

The  hounds  at  cry.    The  hounds  and  he 

The  chiefs  in  all  that  feast  of  pace. 

The  speck  in  front  began  to  race. 


The  fox  heard  hounds  get  on  to  his  line, 
And  again  the  terror  went  down  his  spine, 
Again  the  back  of  his  neck  felt  cold, 
From  the  sense  of  the  hound's  teeth  taking 

hold. 

But  his  legs  were  rested,  his  heart  was  good, 
He  had  breath  to  gallop  to  Mourne  End 

Wood, 

It  was  four  miles  more,  but  an  earth  at  end, 
So  he  put  on  pace  down  the  Rood  Hill  Bend. 

Down  the  great  grass  slope  which  the  oak 

trees  dot 
With  a  swerve  to  the  right  from  the  keeper's 

cot, 

Over  High  Clench  brook  in  its  channel  deep, 
To  the  grass  beyond,  where  he  ran  to  sheep. 

143 


144  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

The  sheep  formed  line  like  a  troop  of  horse, 
They  swerved,  as  he  passed,  to  front  his  course 
From  behind,  as  he  ran,  a  cry  arose, 
"  See  the  sheep,  there.    Watch  them.     There 
he  goes." 

He  ran  the  sheep  that  their  smell  might  check 
The  hounds  from  his  scent  and  save  his  neck, 
But  in  two  fields  more  he  was  made  aware 
That  the  hounds  still  ran ;  Tom  had  viewed 
him  there. 

Tom  had  held  them  on  through  the  taint  of 

sheep, 

They  had  kept  his  line,  as  they  meant  to  keep, 
They  were  running  hard  with  a  burning  scent, 
And  Robin  could  see  which  way  he  went. 
The  pace  that  he  went  brought   strain  to 

breath, 
He  knew  as  he  ran  that  the  grass  was  death. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  145 

He  ran  the  slope  towards  Morton  Tew 
That  the  heave  of  the  hill  might  stop  the 

view, 
Then  he  doubled  down  to  the  Blood  Brook 

red, 
And  swerved  upstream  in  the  brook's  deep 

bed. 

He  splashed  the  shallows,  he  swam  the  deeps* 
He  crept  by  banks  as  a  moorhen  creeps, 
He  heard  the  hounds  shoot  over  his  line, 
And  go  on,  on,  on  towards  Cheddesdon  Zine. 

In  the  minute's  peace  he  could  slacken  speed, 
The  ease  from  the  strain  was  sweet  indeed. 
Cool  to  the  pads  the  water  flowed, 
He  reached  the  bridge  on  the   Cheddesdon 
road. 

As  he  came  to  light  from  the  culvert  dim, 
Two  boys  on  the  bridge  looked  down  on  him ; 


146  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

They  were  young  Bill  Ripple  and  Harry 

Meun, 
"Look,   there  be  squirrel,   a-swimmin',   see 

'un." 

"Noa,  ben't  a  squirrel,  be  fox,  be  fox. 
Now,  Hal,  get  pebble,  we'll  give  en  socks." 
"Get  pebble,  Billy,  dub  un  a  plaster ; 
There's  for  thy  belly,  I'll  learn  ee,  master." 

The   stones    splashed    spray    in    the    fox's 

eyes, 

He  raced  from  brook  in  a  burst  of  shies, 
He  ran  for  the  reeds  in  the  withy  car, 
Where  the  dead  flags  shake  and  the  wild- 
duck  are. 

He  pushed  through  the  reeds  which  cracked 
at  his  passing, 

To  the  High  Clench  Water,  a  grey  pool  glass- 
ing, 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  147 

He  heard  Bill  Ripple  in  Cheddesdon  road, 
Shout,  "This  way,  huntsman,  it's  here  he 

goed." 

\ 

The  Leu  Leu  Leu  went  the  soft  horn's  laugh- 
ter, 

The  hounds  (they  had  checked)  came  romp- 
ing after, 

The  clop  of  the  hooves  on  the  road  was  plain, 

Then  the  crackle  of  reeds,  then  cries  again. 

A  whimpering  first,  then  Robin's  cheer, 
Then  the  Ai  Ai  Ai ;  they  were  all  too  near ; 
His  swerve  had  brought  but  a  minute's  rest 
Now  he  ran  again,  and  he  ran  his  best. 

With  a  crackle  of  dead  dry  stalks  of  reed 
The  hounds  came  romping  at  topmost  speed 
The  redcoats  ducked  as  the  great  hooves 
skittered 


148  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

The  Blood  Brook's  shallows  to  sheets  that 

glittered ; 
With  a  cracking  whip  and  a  "Hoik,  Hoik, 

Hoik, 
Forrard,"    Tom    galloped.      Bob    shouted 

"Yoick." 

Like  a  running  fire  the  dead  reeds  crackled 
The  hounds'  heads  lifted,  their  necks  were 

hackled. 
Tom    cried    to    Bob    as    they    thundered 

through, 
"He    is    running    short,    we    shall    kill   at 

Tew." 

Bob  cried  to  Tom  as  they  rode  in  team, 
"I  was  sure,  that  time,  that  he  turned  up- 
stream. 

As  the  hounds  went  over  the  brook  in  stride, 
I  saw  old  Daffodil  fling  to  side, 
So  I  guessed  at  once,  when  they  checked 

beyond." 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  149 

The  ducks  flew  up  from  the  Morton  Pond. 
The  fox  looked  up  at  their  tailing  strings, 
He  wished  (perhaps)  that  a  fox  had  wings. 
Wings  with  his  friends  in  a  great  V  straining 
The  autumn  sky  when  the  moon  is  gaining ; 
For  better  the  grey  sky's  solitude, 
Than  to  be  two  miles  from  the  Mourne  End 

Wood 

With  the  hounds  behind,  clean-trained  to  run, 
And  your  strength  half  spent  and  your  breath 

half  done. 

Better  the  reeds  and  the  sky  and  water 
Than    that    hopeless    pad    from    a    certain 

slaughter. 

At  the  Morton  Pond  the  fields  began, 
Long  Tew's  green  meadows ;  he  ran ;  he  ran. 

First  the  six  green  fields  that  make  a  mile, 
With  the  lip-full  Clench  at  the  side  the  while, 
With  the  rooks  above,  slow-circling,  shewing 


150  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

The  world  of  men  where  a  fox  was  going ; 
The  fields  all  empty,  dead  grass,  bare  hedges, 
And  the  brook's  bright  gleam  in  the  dark  of 

sedges. 

To  all  things  else  he  was  dumb  and  blind, 
He  ran,  with  the  hounds  a  field  behind. 

At  the  sixth  green  field  came  the  long  slow 

climb, 

To  the  Mourne  End  Wood  as  old  as  time 
Yew  woods  dark,  where  they  cut  for  bows, 
Oak  woods  green  with  the  mistletoes, 
Dark  woods  evil,  but  burrowed  deep 
With  a  brock's  earth  strong,  where  a  fox 

might  sleep. 

He  saw  his  point  on  the  heaving  hill, 
He  had  failing  flesh  and  a  reeling  will, 
He  felt  the  heave  of  the  hill  grow  stiff, 
He  saw  black  woods,  which  would  shelter  — 

If  — 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  151 

Nothing  else,  but  the  steepening  slope, 
And  a  black  line  nodding,  a  line  of  hope 
The  line  of  the  yews  on  the  long  slope's  brow, 
A  mile,  three-quarters,  a  half-mile  now. 
A  quarter-mile,  but  the  hounds  had  viewed 
They  yelled  to  have  him  this  side  the  wood, 
Robin  capped  them,  Tom  Dansey   steered 

them 
With  a   "Yooi,   Yooi,   Yooi,"   Bill    Ridden 

cheered  them. 

Then  up  went  hackles  as  Shatterer  led, 
"Mob    him,"    cried    Ridden,    "the    wood's 

ahead. 

Turn  him,  damn  it ;  Yooi,  beauties,  beat  him, 
O  God,  let  them  get  him ;  let  them  eat  him. 
O  God,"  said  Ridden,  "I'll  eat  him  stewed, 
Jf  you'll  let  us  get  him  this  side  the  wood." 

But  the  pace,  uphill,  made  a  horse  like  stone, 
The  pack  went  wild  up  the  hill  alone. 


152  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

Three   hundred   yards,  and  the  worst  was 

past, 

The  slope  was  gentler  and  shorter-grassed, 
The  fox  saw  the  bulk  of  the  woods  grow  tall 
On  the  brae  ahead  like  a  barrier-wall. 
He  saw  the  skeleton  trees  show  sky, 
And  the  yew  trees  darken  to  see  him  die 
And  the  line  of  the  woods  go  reeling  black 
There  was  hope  in  the  woods,  and  behind, 

the  pack. 

Two  hundred  yards,  and  the  trees  grew  taller, 
Blacker,  blinder,  as  hope  grew  smaller 
Cry  seemed  nearer,  the  teeth  seemed  gripping 
Pulling  him  back,  his  pads  seemed  slipping. 
He  was  all  one  ache,  one  gasp,  one  thirsting, 
Heart  on  his  chest-bones,  beating,  bursting 
The  hounds  were  gaining  like  spotted  pards 
And  the  wood-hedge  still  was  a  hundred 
yards. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  153 

The   wood-hedge   black    was    a   two    year, 

quick 

Cut-and-laid  that  had  sprouted  thick 
Thorns  all  over,  and  strongly  plied, 
With  a  clean  red  ditch  on  the  take-off  side. 

He  saw  it  now  as  a  redness,  topped 

With  a  wattle  of  thorn-work  spiky  cropped, 

Spiky  to  leap  on,  stiff  to  force, 

No  safe  jump  for  a  failing  horse, 

But  beyond  it,  darkness  of  yews  together, 

Dark  green  plumes  over  soft  brown  feather, 

Darkness  of  woods  where  scents  were  blowing 

Strange  scents,  hot  scents,   of  wild  things 

going, 

Scents  that  might  draw  these  hounds  away. 
So  he  ran,  ran,  ran  to  that  clean  red  clay. 

Still,  as  he  ran,  his  pads  slipped  back, 
All  his  strength  seemed  to  draw  the  pack, 


154  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

The  trees  drew  over  him  dark  like  Norns, 
He  was  over  the  ditch  and  at  the  thorns. 

He  thrust  at  the  thorns,  which  would  not 

yield, 

He  leaped,  but  fell,  in  sight  of  the  field, 
The  hounds  went  wild  as  they  saw  him  fall, 
The  fence  stood  stiff  like  a  Bucks  flint  wall. 

He  gathered  himself  for  a  new  attempt, 
His  life  before  was  an  old  dream  dreamt, 
All  that  he  was  was  a  blown  fox  quaking, 
Jumping  at  thorns  too  stiff  for  breaking, 
While  over  the  grass  in  crowd,  in  cry, 
Came  the  grip  teeth  grinning  to  make  him 

die, 

The  eyes  intense,  dull,  smouldering  red, 
The  fell  like  a  ruff  round  each  keen  head, 
The  pace  like  fire,  and  scarlet  men 
Galloping,  yelling,  "  Yooi,  eat  him,  then." 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  155 

He  gathered  himself,  he  leaped,  he  reached 
The  top  of  the  hedge  like  a  fish-boat  beached 
He  steadied  a  second  and  then  leaped  down 
To  the  dark  of  the  wood  where  bright  things 
drown. 

He  swerved,  sharp  right,  under  young  green 

firs. 

Robin  called  on  the  Dane  with  spurs, 
He    cried    "Come,    Dansey:    if   God's   not 

good, 
We  shall  change  our  fox  in  this  Mourne  End 

Wood." 

Tom  cried  back  as  he  charged  like  spate, 
"Mine  can't  jump  that,  I  must  ride  to  gate." 
Robin  answered,  "I'm  going  at  him. 
I'll  kill  that  fox,  if  he  kills  me,  drat  him. 
We'll  kill  in  covert.     Gerr  on,  now,  Dane." 
He  gripped  him  tight  and  he  made  it  plain, 
He  slowed  him  down  till  he  almost  stood 


156  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

While  his  hounds  went  crash  into  Mourne 
End  Wood. 

Like  a  dainty  dancer  with  footing  nice, 
The  Dane  turned  side  for  a  leap  in  twice. 
He  cleared  the  ditch  to  the  red  clay  bank, 
He  rose  at  the  fence  as  his  quarters  sank, 
He  barged  the  fence  as  the  bank  gave  way 
And  down  he  came  in  a  fall  of  clay. 

Robin    jumped    off    him    and    gasped    for 

breath ; 

He  said  "That's  lost  him  as  sure  as  death. 
They've  over-run  him.     Come  up,  the  Dane, 
But  I'll  kill  him  yet,  if  we  ride  to  Spam." 

He  scrambled  up  to  his  horse's  back, 
He  thrust  through  cover,  he  called  his  pack, 
He  cheered  them  on  till  they  made  it  good, 
Where  the  fox  had  swerved  inside  the  wood. 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  157 

The  fox  knew  well  as  he  ran  the  dark, 

That  the  headlong  hounds  were  past  their 
mark 

They  had  missed  his  swerve  and  had  over- 
run. 

But  their  devilish  play  was  not  yet  done. 

For  a  minute  he  ran  and  heard  no  sound, 
Then  a  whimper  came  from  a  questing  hound, 
Then  a  ''This  way,  beauties,"  and  then  "Leu 

Leu," 

The  floating  laugh  of  the  horn  that  blew. 
Then  the  cry  again  and  the  crash  and  rattle 
Of  the  shrubs  burst  back  as  they  ran  to  battle. 
Till  the  wood  behind  seemed  risen  from  root, 
Crying  and  crashing  to  give  pursuit, 
Till  the  trees  seemed  hounds  and  the  air 

seemed  cry, 

And  the  earth  so  far  that  he  needs  but  die, 
Die  where  he  reeled  in  the  woodland  dim 


158  REYNARD   THE  FOX 

With  a  hound's  white  grips  in  the  spine  of 

him; 

For  one  more  burst  he  could  spurt,  and  then 
Wait  for  the  teeth,  and  the  wrench,  and  men. 

He  made  his  spurt  for  the  Mourne  End  rocks, 
The  air  blew  rank  with  the  taint  of  fox ; 
The  yews  gave  way  to  a  greener  space 
Of  great  stones  strewn  in  a  grassy  place. 
And  there  was  his  earth  at  the  great  grey 

shoulder, 

Sunk  in  the  ground,  of  a  granite  boulder 
A  dry  deep  burrow  with  rocky  roof, 
Proof  against  crowbars,  terrier-proof, 
Life  to  the  dying,  rest  for  bones. 

The  earth  was  stopped;    it  was  filled  with 
stones. 

Then,  for  a  moment,  his  courage  failed, 
His  eyes  looked  up  as  his  body  quailed, 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  159 

Then  the  coining  of  death,  which  all  things 

dread, 
Made  him  run  for  the  wood  ahead. 

The  taint  of  fox  was  rank  on  the  air, 
He  knew,  as  he  ran,  there  were  foxes  there. 
His  strength  was  broken,  his  heart  was  burst- 
ing 

His  bones  were  rotten  his  throat  was  thirsting 
His  feet  were  reeling,  his  brush  was  thick 
From  dragging  the  mud,  and  his  brain  was 
sick. 

He  thought  as  he  ran  of  his  old  delight 
In  the  wood  hi  the  moon  in  an  April  night, 
His  happy  hunting,  his  winter  loving, 
The  smells  of  things  in  the  midnight  roving ; 
The  look  of  his  dainty-nosing,  red 
Clean-felled  dam  with  her  footpad's  tread, 
Of  his  sire,  so  swift,  so  game,  so  cunning 


160  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

With  craft  in  his  brain  and  power  of  running. 
Their  fights  of  old  when  his  teeth  drew  blood. 
Now  he  was  sick,  with  his  coat  all  mud. 

He  crossed  the  covert,  he  crawled  the  bank, 
To  a  meuse  in  the  thorns  and  there  he  sank, 
With  his  ears  flexed  back  and  his  teeth  shown 

white, 
In  a  rat's  resolve  for  a  dying  bite. 

And  there,  as  he  lay,  he  saw  the  vale, 
That  a  struggling  sunlight  silvered  pale, 
The  Deerlip  Brook  like  a  strip  of  steel, 
The  Nun's  Wood  Yews  where  the  rabbits 

squeal, 

The  great  grass  square  of  the  Roman  Fort, 
And  the  smoke  in  the  elms  at  Crendon  Court. 

And  above  the  smoke  in  the  elm-tree  tops, 
Was  the  beech-clump's  blue,  Blown  Hilcote 
Copse, 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  161 

Where  he  and  his  mates  had   long  made 

merry 
In  the  bloody  joys  of  the  rabbi t-herry. 

And  there  as  he  lay  and  looked,  the  cry 
Of  the  hounds  at  head  came  rousing  by ; 
He  bent  his  bones  in  the  blackthorn  dim. 

B'ut  the  cry  of  the  hounds  was  not  for  him 
Over  the  fence  with  a  crash  they  went, 
Belly  to  grass,  with  a  burning  scent, 
Then  came  Dansey,  yelling  to  Bob, 
"They've  changed,  O  damn  it,  now  here's  a 

job." 
And  Bob  yelled  back,  "Well,  we  cannot  turn 

'em, 

It's  Jumper  and  Antic,  Tom ;  we'll  learn  'em. 
We  must  just  go  on,  and  I  hope  we  kill." 
They   followed   hounds   down   the   Mourne 

End  Hill. 


162  REYNARD   THE  FOX 

The  fox  lay  still  in  the  rabbit-meuse, 
On  the  dry  brown  dust  of  the  plumes  of  yews. 
In  the  bottom  below  a  brook  went  by, 
Blue,  in  a  patch,  like  a  streak  of  sky. 
There,  one  by  one,  with  a  clink  of  stone 
Came  a  red  or  dark  coat  on  a  horse  half  blown. 
And  man  to  man  with  a  gasp  for  breath 
Said,  "Lord,  what  a  run.    I'm  fagged  to 
death." 

After  an  hour,  no  riders  came, 

The  day  drew  by  like  an  ending  game ; 

A  robin  sang  from  a  pufft  red  breast, 

The  fox  lay  quiet  and  took  his  rest. 

A  wren  on  a  tree-stump  carolled  clear, 

Then   the   starlings   wheeled   in   a   sudden 

sheer, 

The  rooks  came  home  to  the  twiggy  hive 
In  the  elm-tree  tops  which  the  winds  do  drive. 
Then  the  noise  of  the  rooks  fell  slowly  still, 


REYNARD    THE   FOX  163 

And  the  lights  came  out  in  the  Clench  Brook 

Mill 

Then  a  pheasant  cocked,  then  an  owl  began 
With  the  cry  that  curdles  the  blood  of  man. 

The  stars  grew  bright  as  the  yews  grew  black, 
The  fox  rose  stiffly  and  stretched  his  back. 
He  flaired  the  air,  then  he  padded  out 
To  the  valley  below  him  dark  as  doubt, 
Winter-thin  with  the  young  green  crops, 
For  Old  Cold  Crendon  and  Hilcote  Copse. 

As  he  crossed  the  meadows  at  Naunton  Lark- 
ing, 

The  dogs  in  the  town  all  started  barking, 
For  with  feet  all  bloody  and  flanks  all  foam, 
The  hounds  and  the  hunt  were  limping  home ; 
Limping  home  in  the  dark,  dead-beaten, 
The  hounds  all  rank  from  a  fox  they'd  eaten, 
Dansey  saying  to  Robin  Dawe, 


164  REYNARD   THE   FOX 

"The  fastest  and  longest  I  ever  saw." 
And  Robin  answered,  "O  Tom,  'twas  good, 
I  thought  they'd  changed  in  the  Mourne  End 

Wood, 

But  now  I  feel  that  they  did  not  change. 
We've  had  a  run  that  was  great  and 

strange  ; 

And  to  kill  in  the  end,  at  dusk,  on  grass. 
We'll  turn  to  the  Cock  and  take  a  glass, 
For  the  hounds,  poor  souls,  are  past  their 

forces. 

And  a  gallon  of  ale  for  our  poor  horses, 
And  some  bits  of  bread  for  the  hounds,  poor 

things, 
After  all  they've  done  (for  they've  done  like 

kings), 

Would  keep  them  going  till  we  get  in. 
We  had  it  alone  from  Nun's  Wood  Whin." 
Then   Tom   replied,    "  If   they   changed   or 

not, 


REYNARD   THE   FOX  165 

There  Ve  been  few  runs  longer  and  none  more 

hot, 
We  shall  talk  of  to-day  until  we  die." 

The  stars  grew  bright  in  the  winter  sky, 
The  wind  came  keen  with  a  tang  of  frost, 
The  brook  was  troubled  for  new  things  lost, 
The  copse  was  happy  for  old  things  found, 
The  fox  came  home  and  he  went  to  ground. 

And  the  hunt  came  home  and  the  hounds  were 

fed, 

They  climbed  to  their  bench  and  went  to  bed, 
The  horses  in  stable  loved  their  straw. 
"Good-night,    my    beauties,"    said    Robin 

Dawe. 

Then  the  moon  came  quiet  and  flooded  full 
Light  and  beauty  on  clouds  like  wool, 
On  a  feasted  fox  at  rest  from  hunting, 


166  REYNARD    THE   FOX 

In  the  beech  wood  grey  where  the  brocks 
were  grunting. 

The  beech  wood  grey  rose  dim  in  the  night 
With  moonlight  fallen  in  pools  of  light, 
The  long  dead  leaves  on  the  ground  were 

rimed. 
A  clock  struck  twelve  and  the  church-bells 

chimed. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


JUN1  61349 « 
JUL  2      1953 

.H&  8      195f 
APR  4     195S 
APR  1  8  1955 


2  o  1960" 


Form  L9 — 15m-10,'48(B1039)444 


PR 
6025 
M37r 
1919 


